


Reflex (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Finish Me [27]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Anal Sex, Angst, Anthropomorphic, Bat John, Blood Drinking, Bonding, Consulting Cow, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Oral Sex, Owl Mycroft, Rimming, Silver Fox Lestrade, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, Vampire John, cowlock, not crack, vampire bat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John was invalided home from the army with a weak wing he lost his easy access to blood. When he meets the consulting detective the lactating madman suggests a slight change in diet that would give them both a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


SUMMARY: When John was invalided home from the army with a weak wing he lost his easy access to blood. When he meets the consulting detective the lactating madman suggests a slight change in diet that would give them both a hand. 

WARNING: NOT CRACK! M/M, Lactation Kink, Oral, Anal, Rimming, Animals as People, Owl!croft, Ander!sheep, Dono!saur, Foxxy!Greg, Mewwy!Hooper, Bat!John, Consulting!Cow

  
CHAPTER 1  


[](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/166260.html)  
CHAPTER 2

[CHAPTER 3](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/167159.html)

[CHAPTER 4  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/167536.html)

[CHAPTER 5  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/168223.html)

[CHAPTER 6](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/169516.html)   


[CHAPTER 7  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/169373.html)

[CHAPTER 8  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/172759.html)

[CHAPTER 9  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/180056.html)

[CHAPTER 10  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/187214.html)

[CHAPTER 11](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/189036.html)

        
It was tempting. It was far _too_ tempting, was the problem. With those tight shirts John could always see Sherlock’s six nipples through his shirts and there was no denying the chemistry between them… except in Sherlock’s case as he seemed completely unaware of what everyone else in the world was so intensely aware of that they were unashamed to mention it out loud. He just stared at them blankly whenever it was assumed they were ‘together’, blinking at John’s frustrated denials. 

“We aren’t together,” John snapped for the tenth time as the hotel manager insisted over and over again that it was best they have a room together.

“Honestly, sir, having Prey stay in an exclusively predator hotel… if you would just book a double room or go down the street to a _Prey_ hotel…”

“Fine!” John snapped, throwing up his arms in disgust, “He probably won’t sleep anyway!”

The man flushed brilliantly and stammered awkwardly as he fumbled the keycard. John rubbed his hand over his face and groaned as he realized how that sounded. He snatched the two keycards and stomped over to where Sherlock was staring at a potted plant.

“If you’re hungry let’s get something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry, John,” Sherlock scolded, “You know I never eat while I’m on a case.”

John knew. It would prevent Sherlock from having to drop everything to pump out extra milk when his chest began to expand each morning. John was still amazed at the elasticity of the pink area of soft-looking flesh that covered Sherlock’s chest and the upper half of his stomach. The rest of him was white with black spots, the curly hair on the top of his head dark and beautiful. 

_Stop, John. Don’t think of him like that. He’s not your lover and he’s made it clear that he doesn’t think of you that way._

Besides, John was a vampire bat. He had arms as long as his body with thick membrane between them that formed his wings. His fingers ended in sharp claws that he filed the down on his first and thumb since he was no longer a soldier. Unlike Sherlock he had humanoid feet, but he still preferred to go either barefoot or in roomy boots that he could easily kick off for flight. A light dusting of blonde fur covered his body, velveteen in most areas but thick around his neck. His nose was slightly upturned and his ears were larger than his hands and slightly bent at the tips from his rabbit heritage. 

Sherlock provided John with his milk every day; his suggestion when John put out an advertisement in the paper for those willing to supply him with blood and it got no results. They’d met that way, through the editor Mike Stamford- a reindeer- who mentioned to John that a friend of his had seen the paper and suggested an alternative to blood. The resulting chat had made them realize that both men were looking for a flatshare. They’d moved in and John started guzzling milk instead of blood every day… from six glass bottles that Sherlock kept in the fridge for him. Of course, he wouldn’t have had the suckling and licking he missed even if he’d found a few donors willing to give him blood each day; the sanitary method was extraction via IV or a more permanent implant. Sherlock drew him a pint of blood a week to supplement his diet and had devised some liquid vitamins for him, but John was missing the suckling action and was too proud to use a bottle outside of the privacy of his bedroom. 

The problem was that John was what was called a Fringe Animal. He was a predator, but he wasn’t the sort who ate meat. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock he’d have starved to death or gone mad and attacked someone by now, as the Predator/Prey Act of 1781 only covered the export of the dead to predator cities and their blood was drained to preserve them for the trip. Blood that was salvageable from a deceased animal- a rare situation- was kept for medical purposes. As such he couldn’t survive in the Predator cities, but without blood donations he couldn’t very well survive in a Prey city either. There were _some_ Omnivore cities, mostly in harsher climates where survival meant people were too busy to chase each other around like uncivilized animals, but John wouldn’t fare much better there and his heart was in London. So when Sherlock cut back on food to focus on a case John didn’t feel he could complain, but he did tend to push him to eat because he was a doctor and worried at his fasting. Sherlock knew that John was testy because he was hungry, but never mentioned it. John was silently grateful for his odd show of understanding. 

Perhaps Sherlock knew that John’s diet was a shameful situation for him. After all it was no secret that he was the only bat in his family for two generations; the product of a shocking union when his great grandmother had an affair while her husband was away at war. They’d raised the child together anyway, rabbits being the forgiving sorts where infidelity was concerned, and John was left a rather long eared vampire bat in a family of bunnies. His sister had still managed to upstage him in the shock department by marrying a predator, though as cats went Clara was a decent sort and John was fond of her even after the divorce. 

Their room was simplistic enough and John threw himself down on the bed with a relieved sigh, his wings stretching out across it. He doubted Sherlock would let him do more than lie there for a moment, but he was going to take every opportunity to stretch his wings out he got. He hated flying by plane, but Russia was simply too far away for him to wing it. Sherlock chuckled at John, moving across the floor with a grace that defied his secondary species. John knew that there was owl in his family, after all his brother was an owl/cow mix, but he had no idea if it was his most recent ancestor or not. After all something had shifted both Mycroft and Sherlock from bull to cow despite both being male, so it was likely he had two mothers and that could draw out long-dormant alleles. Sherlock sat down on a chair and checked the anti-slip pads on his hooves, his white fingers with their black tips dancing over his buttons as he opened his shirt to squeeze one large nipple to make sure he wasn’t about to start pouring out milk in the middle of a crime scene.

“Don’t get too comfy. I’m going to use the toilet and then we’re going,” Sherlock informed him. 

“Just five minutes,” John groaned, “That seat was built for an ant!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, “I was fine and you’re a good 43.18 cm shorter than I am.”

John scowled at him but Sherlock pretended not to see it. John was the shortest person in his family and the shortest male he knew in a society full of long-legged and tall horned people. Sherlock’s own horns, adorned with embossed metal caps to flatter his colouring, towered above John. A man as gorgeous as Sherlock, especially one able of either carrying or siring offspring, should have been married ages ago, but no matching silver bell hung from the solid black collar around his neck. 

Sherlock squeezed his bottom left nipple, each the size of the top third of a pinky finger, and milk shot out. 

“Damn!” Sherlock snapped, “Looks like you’ll get that time after all.”

John’s nose caught the scent and a Pavlovian reaction went through him instantly, his mouth starting to salivate while his trousers tented. John rolled over to avoid his erection being visible. Sherlock had shot him down on _that_ ages ago as well as the whole ‘nursing’ thing. The fact he’d been less disgusted by John’s flirting than his assumption that he was going to feed directly from Sherlock’s teats had kept him hopeful for a while, but that was long past. Sherlock’s thin body didn’t produce much milk, only six bottles over the course of an entire day with multiple pumping, but that was likely due to his thinness. Still, sometimes a plane ride triggered an extra jolt of milk for him, though whether it was from the altitude or the vibrations even Sherlock didn’t know. 

John watched hungrily as Sherlock’s pink flesh swelled a bit, the let-down reflex kicking in on all six nipples after one decided it was full. He groaned at the ache and pulled out his hand pump.

“This is going to take _ages_!” Sherlock complained angrily, setting up on the lowest teat and starting to squeaze.

“Give you a hand?” John asked, his tone joking to cover up the longing he felt.

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, pumping faster as he grew impatient.

“You’re going to chaff yourself,” John worried.

“Without eating I’ll be pumping less anyway. I’ll deal with the chaffing.”

“This is a Predator city. You won’t find any udder balm.”

Sherlock gave him a furious look and took his pump into the bathroom in order to avoid John’s mollycoddling. John sighed and hoped he didn’t flush the milk. They’d had quite the row last time that had happened and he didn’t think the man would repeat it, but one never could be certain. Meanwhile John’s stomach was growling at him to do _something_ about his urges- either of them. He doubted Sherlock would be long at the rate he was going so he focused on dull thoughts to quell his arousal and hoped he’d get _warm_ milk rather than the refrigerated stuff he usually got.

Thankfully Sherlock emerged twenty minutes later to find John dozing on the bed and offered up two plastic milk bags full to the brim. John swallowed down a cheer, offered up a polite ‘cheers’ instead, and promptly bit into the bag once Sherlock turned away to button up his shirt. John fell onto his back with a barely smothered moan and suckled the bag dry, using the container as an excuse to indulge his preference. Over time intelligent vampire bats had evolved from tearing open the flesh and lapping up the blood to biting with two very thin, retractable fangs and sucking the blood out. It helped avoid things like animals running from them in terror and jail sentences. It added to John’s longing to have his mouth wrapped around those nipples to suck the milk out of them, but any amount of swearing that he could keep his fangs retracted left Sherlock unmoved. 

“You think it’s the same bomber who was taunting us in London?” John asked, sighing sadly as he slipped the second bag into the mini-fridge beside the alcohol he was trying to make sure he didn’t dig into. It was sometimes _very_ tempting when around a fasting Sherlock Holmes. He knew the taste of his milk and blood, the smell of his cologne, the elegance of his fingers as they stroked along the strings of his violin…

“Moriarty? No. He’s not resurfaced since then and this isn’t his MO.”

“Bombs?” John asked.

“He’s not a bomber. Not really. He’s more of a… terrorist,” Sherlock explained, “Come on then.”

John straightened up, glancing over the six rings that were fed through piercings his wings to attach his clothes on the front and back of his body. He would be cold in this frigid place with the wind blowing through the gaps in his clothes, but he had little choice. He wrapped his arms around himself, and Sherlock flicked a cape around his shoulders and tied it at the neck to keep his wings warm. John tried not to stare up at him in longing but it was getting more and more difficult not to let his longing for the man show through ever since he’d seen such raw emotion on his face when Moriarty had strapped a bomb to his wings. On top of Sherlock giving him back his flight it was just too much not to ask a lonely misfit not to fall for him.

“Battle stations,” Sherlock stated softly.

John nodded firmly and they headed downstairs to take a panda wagon to a station full of Predators.   
  


[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/166260.html)   
  
This is John's wing structure if any of you were wondering. His arms are elongated, almost twice the length of a normal human's arms, and his hands are at the apex of the wing joints where some bats have 'fingers'. The narrow part of the wings extends almost to his knees, requiring him to use pierced metal hoops to attach his trousers. His trousers have normal legs up to the knee and then fastenings on each side, so he'd pull them up like a normal person and then hook them th rough the rings. His wings are not as powerful as Mycroft's wings are and have a soft, leather feel to them. They are hairless, but most of his body has a light coating of fuzz on it with quite a bit more on his torso. His entire body is the light blonde of his hair (before the grey set in) and he has a smattering of grey on his head and a bit on his chest hair. He does NOT have a tail, or the connecting piece on his back end. His ears are a cross between bat ears and bunny ears and very expressive.   
  
  



	2. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Chapter 2

  **  
WARNING: BLOOD AND GORE**

John usually didn’t accompany Sherlock when he went to other countries, but heading to a Predator city when you looked and smelled like their last meal was dangerous, and where Sherlock and danger went John followed. So he found himself standing in a room crowded by predators with Sherlock at his side looking at ease with the world while a dog-woman stepped forward to shake his hand firmly. 

“Mr. Holmes, welcome,” She stated in nearly flawless English, “Welcome to Moscow. I’m Tobi Utkin. We’re so grateful you could come on such short notice.”

“I understand you’ve got a bomber on your hands, but I’ve heard nothing of it in the news.”

“So far we’ve managed to keep it out of the international news,” The chief of police nodded.

“So far there are only _threats_ ,” Sherlock replied, “If you’ve wasted my time…”

“Sherlock,” John scolded lightly when he saw the woman’s eyes narrow. It was never good to piss off a predator, even an omnivore. They may be just as evolved as vegetarians, but they had tempers and invoking that simmering rage was the equivalent of blood in the water around a shark… sometimes quite literally. 

“Do go on,” Sherlock amended.

The woman gestured to her office and Sherlock followed her in with John hot on his trail.

“May I get you something to drink? I understand our tea is not palatable to you, but our coffee is outstanding and I also made sure to have a blood supply on hand for your blogger,” The woman nodded to John who perked up and nodded amicably, “I had never read your blog until Mr. Holmes was mentioned, but now that I have I can see why he was brought on.”

“Thank you,” John replied, happily accepting a warm mug of blood that appeared at his elbow, delivered by a… 

John did a double take. A _mosquito_! His face lit up in a smile and the tiny woman gave him a flirtatious wink before flitting off on wings that let off a pleasant hum. John twisted around in his seat to watch her go, shocked at how much excitement four feet of person could send through him.

“John. Focus,” Sherlock snapped, and John turned back to guiltily stare at the dog as she explained the situation.

“The Moscow Rings are a simple road construction,” Chief Utkin explained, “Certainly we are proud of them, but they are nothing to be feared! We’re currently construction the Fourth Transportation Ring, which is a freeway that will reduce traffic congestion by an estimated 28-53%.”

Sherlock looked impressed as he accepted the mosquito-borne coffee without actually looking at the woman who brought it to him. As she flitted by John she managed to slip a piece of paper into his hand practically unobserved. She really moved fast! Sherlock sipped his coffee and John took the opportunity to glance into the palm of his right hand and stare at a little sticky note with her name and number.

_Hello Meredith._ John thought with a grin.

The woman in question landed just in the office door, a wooden click drawing John’s attention to the fact she had a peg leg. She wore it proudly, decorated with engravings and shown off with one shorter pant leg. He was instantly impressed with her and gave her a cheerful nod as he pocketed her name and number for later. She smirked at him and walked the rest of the way out with a sashay of her hips. 

“John,” Sherlock snapped irritably, “Flirt _later_ , there’s a bomber on the loose.”

John cleared his throat and sat up straight, but the note burned in his pocket. 

“So if the rings are harmless- even helpful- why would someone seek to destroy them?” John asked.

“That’s what his notes explain,” The woman sighed, “We didn’t take it seriously until we found an actual _bomb_ on a construction site. Our team was able to disable it in time, but this… These are the ravings of a madman, but the bomb I was assured was professionally built.”

Ms. Utkin handed them a series of letters, all preserved in evidence bags. Sherlock started on one while handing the other to John who had to remind himself not to laugh as he read it. They were ridiculous. 

“Circles of hell?” Sherlock read, his tone disgusted at the superstition.

“That’s better than this one, it says the roads are being constructed in the form of a web in order to lure in the largest and most powerful spider of them all,” John replied.

Sherlock snatched it from his hand so quickly John nearly spilled his blood. He abandoned decorum to gulp down the last of the precious fluid and gave Sherlock a glare.

“Well John, it would seem I owe you an apology.”

“What?” John asked, not sure those words were part of Sherlock’s vocabulary.

“Moriarty _is_ involved.”

XXX

John followed Sherlock from one construction site to another, shivering miserably until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Have you got someplace I can warm up?” He wondered, and the mantis man leading the crew nodded and motioned him to a shack on the premises. It was a portable construction, but when John stepped in the warmth was instant and most welcome. He sighed in relief and headed closer to the little heater on the floor where he extended his wings and wrapped them around the heater to form a sort of tent. He baked himself for a while, before turning to warm his ass. That was when he saw Sherlock’s amused smile. He hadn’t realized the man had slipped in behind him with that un-cow-like grace. 

“There’s nothing to be found here. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

John sighed sadly, not ready to leave the heat, but when he made to step forward Sherlock stilled him with a few fingers to his shoulder.

“When you’re ready. This is the last site and we’re not making progress at this point. No need to rush until I’ve thought of where to look next.”

John nodded gratefully and stepped back to enjoy the heat. 

“It’s bloody cold out there,” John grumbled.

“These aren’t even record temperatures,” Sherlock stated factually.

“I’d rather not stay to confirm that,” John replied, “Do you think you can solve this quickly? Probably not if Moriarty is involved.”

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He’d noticed a map nearby and strode over to it.

“Something… Something I’m missing,” Sherlock muttered, “Something right in front of me. Staring me in the face.”

John moved away from the warmth of the heater, wrapping his wings tightly around himself to preserve his warmth. Sherlock absent mindedly tucked his cape around his body again and John moved a bit closer to look over his shoulders at the map.

“I don’t read Russian. What’s that in the center of the ‘web’?” John asked, squinting at the tiny print, “Government offices? Could they be targeted next?”

“No, St. Basil’s Cathedral, it’s mostly a museum now.”

“Sounds like a decent place to _start_ looking,” John suggested with a half-shrug.

Sherlock smirked, “And the fact it’s likely heated…”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock shook his head in amusement and headed for the door with John at his heels. The foreman waved at them, friendly enough for a Predator, and John gave him a cheerful nod before heading off.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” John stated, “I’ve been to far worse Predator towns; I can’t believe how nice everyone is here.”

“We’re asked here for one,” Sherlock pointed out before giving him a sly look, “And for another there was a fellow blood sucker in the police station. Will you be abandoning me to matrimony soon?”

“Shut it,” John replied, his tone a warning, “There’s no hope there anyway.”

“Why not?”

“No way I’d breed with another vamp species. Our offspring would be guaranteed to be 100% reliant on blood. Only my rabbit genes let me consume other things, no way am I going to do that to my kids. I’m better off finding a mutt breed. They mix well with us without having such… side effects.”

“You kept the note.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” John replied, “I’ve only rarely met other blood drinkers; I don’t relate to either predators or omnivores and… well herbivores are _usually_ afraid of me.”

Sherlock smiled softly as they slipped into the cab. The cabby gave Sherlock a hungry look but John’s scowl had him turning back to the road.

“I have to admit,” Sherlock started, his tone hesitant, “You evoked an instinctive reaction in me when we first met.”

“You were afraid of me?” John asked in alarm.

Sherlock shook his head, “Not afraid, not exactly. Wary. My skin crawled and the hair on my neck stood up on end. I ignored it because my deductive reasoning told me that you were not to be irrationally feared- not to be underestimated either, but not a threat to me. I still felt it every time you were in the same room as me for months on end, and then you proved your character time and again and that stopped happening. I’m not even sure when. I just eventually noticed that when you were near my instincts weren’t screaming at me anymore.”

John sighed miserably, “So _that’s_ why you were repulsed by the idea of me…”

John let the sentence hang and Sherlock didn’t reply, turning to his phone to research a few things.

“There’s a storm coming, John. Heavy winds and snowfall for 24 hours straight. It won’t be safe for you.”

John nodded, and replied with an edge to his voice, “Then we’d best get things done before it hits.”

“We’ll need to make it back to the hotel quickly, then,” Sherlock nodded, smiling at his phone. He was always grateful for John’s protection even if he’d never admit it aloud. 

They arrived at the gorgeous structure and John stared up at it in amazement. The towers looked like something out of a Disney movie, shining brilliantly despite the glowering clouds above and the snow that tried to veil the colours from sight. He could see why people came from all over the world and various faiths to worship here, even to a devout atheist it evoked a sense of wonder and magic.

“It’s gorgeous,” He breathed.

“It’s a shame it’s too cold for you to fly up there,” Sherlock agreed, squinting at the domes.

“Yeah,” John agreed sadly, “Maybe we can come back in the summer?”

“The police force here is fairly efficient,” Sherlock sighed sadly, “I doubt we’ll have reason to return. 

“Well there are holidays…”

Sherlock snorted as if that were a ridiculous thing to want to do. _Take a holiday! Honestly!_

They arrived at the cathedral and stepped in to take the tour. John was having difficulty recalling that they _weren’t_ on Holiday while looking at the gorgeous décor and art exhibits. Especially when someone from the museum approached them and Sherlock went into acting mode. John was surprised to feel an arm descend around his shoulders and Sherlock’s earthy scent- a combination of his own masculine scent and hay- fill his nose. John found himself leaning into him and smiling as Sherlock plastered on a big soppy grin.

“Hello,” The caretaker greeted him, smiling in a nervous sort of way. No wonder. He was a rather plump mustached _mouse_ , “I’m the curator here. Dawson at your service, Dr. Dawson.”

“I have to say,” John grinned cheerfully, trying to put the nervous man at ease, “I had no idea there were so many of us Brits in Russia! I thought I’d be having difficulty talking to the locals, but even they speak flawless English.”

Sherlock drew in a shocked breath beside him and John looked at him expectantly but the look of dawning resignation and frustration on his face had him turning to look back at Dawson. The man was standing there with a pistol in his hand and a sad look on his face. The gun was tucked carefully beneath a pamphlet so it wasn’t obvious to those around them still viewing the museum, though it had thinned out quite a bit due to the coming storm.

“Oh dear,” He sighed, all traces of nervousness gone, “I had so wanted to give you the full tour first.”

“You’re obviously a reluctant participant,” Sherlock stated calmly, “Put down the gun before my blogger breaks your neck.”

“To be fair if he’s reluctant I’m more likely to go for an arm or leg,” John put in, smiling as he extended his piercing teeth, “Or perhaps a nip to eat.”

The man gave him a wry grin, “I’m sorry to disappoint you Dr. Watson, but I’m unlikely to feel threatened by you. Perhaps if you were an owl or cat…”

“What _are_ you all doing here?” Sherlock wondered, “You don’t seem like Mycroft’s men, I’d have notice _that_ immediately.”

“Afraid not,” The man sighed, “Though we have done _everything_ we could to get The Iceman’s attention. We’re part of the a very special group, Mr. Holmes, and it is our sworn duty to protect you. You and your consort.”

Sherlock snorted. John scowled. 

Dawson nodded, taking their reaction as acquiescence, “Now come along. We’ve got a roaring fire and some comfy chairs set up for you in the curators office, some nice tea, bit of cheese… Not much in the way of vegetables here, but I have some on the way through a dear friend of mine.”

John and Sherlock were directed to the curator’s office where they were indeed given every comfort. 

“This is the first place he’d look,” Sherlock informed Dawson, his eyes rolling in annoyance, “Followed by the bell tower, and then the basement.”

“He won’t look here at all,” Dawson replied, settling himself behind his desk and resting the butt of the pistol on the desk while keeping it trained on them.

“Why are we doing this, Sherlock?” John asked softly, knowing his strong ears would pick it up, “He’s obviously not going to shoot us. He’s trying to _protect_ us.”

“He’s insane,” Sherlock stated softly, “I’d rather not push him.”

“We’re not _insane_ ,” Dawson argued, looking affronted, “We’re trying to spread your brilliance to the world! And keep you safe, of course. Moriarty is your arch enemy and-“

“Mycroft Holmes is my arch enemy,” Sherlock scowled, “Moriarty is no match for me. He sent in The Woman and look how well that worked out?”

“You think that now, but if you were in England well…”

John stared at him in horror before turning quickly to Sherlock, “What’s he talking about?”

“The bombs here were planted by this group to lure me here. To safety,” Sherlock sighed, staring down at his phone, “The _real_ bombing is taking place in England. I’ve alerted Mycroft but there’s little to be done at the moment.”

The door opened and Chief Utkin walked in the door with a basket full of fresh fruits and vegetables for Sherlock. She placed them down on the table in front of Sherlock and walked over to speak in hushed tones with Dawson. Sherlock was still staring at his mobile, which neither ‘abductor’ had deigned to take away from him. 

“Where is Meredith?” Sherlock asked.

They both stared at him blankly for a moment. John joined them. 

“The mosquito-woman with the peg leg?” Sherlock elaborated, “She was supposed to bring John blood?”

“She isn’t here yet, obviously,” Utkin replied, looking at Dawson with confusion, “How does he know about Lil Fidget?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically, “I was referring to the fact that the snow has started and we’re expecting the storm of the _century_. Moscow already has thirty centimeters on the ground from previous accrual, and we’re expecting _twenty-six_ in the next twenty-four hours. Your mosquito friend is not warm blooded as you are. Judging by the amount of accumulation on your shoulders and how wind-whipped your hair and ears are _she’s already dead_.”

They were gaping at him. 

“I know,” John nodded to them, his tone consoling, “He’s less charming than he looks once he starts talking, but you get used to it. Or you try to kill him. And then I kill _you_.”

Sherlock wasn’t done.

“The real shame of it is that she needn’t have sacrificed her life to bring him blood at all. John drinks _exclusively_ from me except when politeness dictates he accepts a few sips in company. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“I thought you said…” Dawson started, but Sherlock cut him off by rubbing at his chest suggestively while John stared at him hungrily.

“I’ll need to eat and drink first. We’ll likely be stuck here overnight.”

To John’s shock Sherlock tucked into his food with gusto, eating the way he did right before he gave blood to John, favouring the iron-rich vegetables. Except that he was unlikely to have his kit with him to draw blood. There went that Pavlovian reaction again. John’s mouth was watering and his cock was twitching in his trousers. He shifted in the chair as Sherlock downed the food with the single-mindedness of a starved man. He was fully aware he was eyeing Sherlock up as if he were his dinner, and every sign the man was sending him said ‘prepare to devour me’. 

Nearby the woman sitting at the desk shifted and gave Sherlock a hungry look. John’s eyes narrowed on her and she looked carefully away.

“A bite to eat, I think,” She said, clearing her throat, and standing.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sherlock cautioned as she headed for the door. 

She froze with her hand outstretched, “I’m just going to go to the cafeteria and get a burger.”

“Not a good idea, seeing as how I’m the closest thing to a _fresh_ burger and you’re carrying my scent. We’re all trapped in this building now, and we’re not alone. Mob mentality will likely be kicking in soon if it hasn’t already.”

John frowned as he recalled all the other people he’d seen in the museum. True, it had been emptying out, but there had still been too many for him to take out if they decided to rush him all at once in order to get their hands on Sherlock. 

“How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” John worried.

“Long enough for these two to die,” Sherlock replied calmly, “And possibly others.”

Then Sherlock turned a cold smile on the Dawson while John warily eyed up Utkin. Sherlock must have harnessed his inner owl because Dawson panicked first. He fumbled the gun and it went off, frightening Utkin who let out a shocked bark. John _screamed_ in outrage at his detective being threatened and launched himself at Dawson, only to hear Sherlock shout for help and spin mid-air _(When did I take off?)_ to find Utkin pushing Sherlock down in his chair and _fondling_ him! John landed on her back- legs around her waist and hands clawing her hair and ears- and sank his fangs into her neck, but he didn’t retract them gently to suckle at her. Instead he let her terror send her staggering around the room, tripping over the table and landing in a heap on John’s chair before struggling to get up. Her motion tore her own throat out and she collapsed into a heap, hitting the table and rolling onto the floor, to gurgle and clutch at her throat as she spurted into the air and onto the surrounding carpet.

“John,” Sherlock stated firmly, “ _Thank_ you for restraining yourself.”

John was panting, his face and jumper drenched in blood, staring up at Sherlock in confusion as he knelt over her bleeding corpse.

“What?”

“For not feeding from her,” Sherlock elaborated, “It’s important to me that you only feed from me.”

Sherlock smiled at him, eyes glittering with affection, and held out a hand that John extended one long arm to clasp. Sherlock brought it to his lips and kissed it. John shivered at the intimate contact and intense gaze, and then sucked in his breath as Sherlock’s lips came away red with blood from John’s hand. He picked up a napkin and dabbed at his lips, handing one to John as well.

“In a few hours I’ll be able to feed you,” Sherlock indicated the basket of food he’d saved from being crushed during their scuffle.

John had no idea why Sherlock was playing helpless, going along with this madness, or flirting with John. He could only assume that there was some use in Dawson that had caused Sherlock to get John to spare him. The mouse in the corner looked shaken, but not as terrified as he had been when Sherlock had let his owl heritage creep him out. He was, in fact, quite calm in the face of the murdered woman on the floor. He held the gun steady now, his clasp sure and his hands dry of the sweat that would be soaking a normal person. 

_Oh. Oh dear. His instincts set him off earlier, but he’s otherwise unaffected by all of this. He’s either hardened to violence or a sociopath. Moriarty in disguise? I’m still not certain I saw the real him all that time ago…_ __

_XXX_ FLASHBACK _XXX_ __

_John woke up groggy and in a terrible position on the floor, his bad wing pinned beneath him. He struggled upright and stared down at the bomb on his chest in horror. He glanced around himself, trying to determine who was there and if he could simply remove it._ __

“I wouldn’t if I were you _,” A voice in his ear sang out,_ “I’ve already got your Sherly-moo in my sniper’s sights. Be a good flippity-flappity and walk out into the pool area. Just follow the signs. There’s a good bat.” __

_John stood up and obediently walked for the pool entrance, wrapping his wings around himself and the bomb when ordered too. He had no illusion that the thick membrane would protect Sherlock from the bomb when it went off. He had to protect him. Sherlock had given him acceptance and friendship when he’d thought those days were over for him. He had to protect his Sherlock…_

I mean my friend. _John thought frantically_ , I need to protect my FRIEND.

_Sherlock’s face flashed through several emotions before settling on understanding as John’s wings fell open to reveal the bomb. He almost looked relieved but then the fear clicked into place and John’s heart ached for him. The chances of them both surviving seemed slim to none._ __

_Then Moriarty stepped out, flirting with Sherlock and mocking him at the same time. The man’s species was unidentifiable. He had plain ears, plain teeth, plain_ everything _. He appeared to have no secondary species at all, but that was impossible. A 100% humanoid hadn’t been seen in centuries. Even if he’d somehow been born without showing any sign of his secondary species, surely his parents would have been kind enough to get him corrective surgery? Add ears or a tail or at_ least _modify his teeth?_ __

_John’s thoughts came to a rambling halt when the man got too close to his long arms and he snatched him against himself, settling his fangs into the crook of his neck._ __

_Sherlock didn’t run. He didn’t talk for John the way John had expected. He simply sighed sadly and shook his head. A dot appeared on Sherlock’s forehead and John released Moriarty with a sigh of frustration. The man taunted him and John clenched his jaw and breathed through his nose and swore he would never forget his scent. He’d hunt the bastard down and tear out his throat. He would_ never _threaten Sherlock again._ __

_Then the man’s phone rang and their lives became a lot more confusing._

XXX

John frowned at the mouse-man sitting at the desk. He didn’t smell like Moriarty, but then he knew for a fact Sherlock could change his scent easily using chemicals and soaps. He would just have to wait it out and make sure he was between Sherlock and that gun when the time came.   
  


[CHAPTER 3](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/167159.html)

  
  
 

_A/N_ __

_Utkin = duck in Russian. As in sitting duck. ;)_ __

_I picture the mosquito woman as Meredith Eaton because I have an enormous crush on her._ _[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meredith_Eaton ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meredith_Eaton) _

_St. Basil’s Cathedral:_ _[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Basil's_Cathedral ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Basil's_Cathedral)   
[ http://www.saintbasil.ru/ ](http://www.saintbasil.ru/) _

_You have no idea how difficult it was to NOT turn this into crack and make Mycroft’s nickname Frosty the Owlman instead of Iceman._ __


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Chapter 3

 

It had only been twenty hours, but it felt like an eternity, especially after the power went out. The fireplace kept the room warm, but a cool breeze told them the rest of the cathedral was dropping in temperature. John couldn’t sleep with someone pointing a gun and torch at them and Dawson seemed to feel the same about having hostages. Sherlock, apparently, had no qualms about sleeping quite comfortably… with his head in John’s lap and his legs tucked up on a pillow at John’s feet. John sat there, legs slightly spread, with Sherlock’s head wedged between his thighs as he snored contentedly with a hand curled around his knee. John indulged in some innocent hair petting, imagining a bell jingling around his neck. He wanted to _devour_ this man and…

“Careful Dr. Watson,” Dawson said softly.

John’s head shot up and the growl low in his throat increased. 

Sherlock stirred, “Something wrong?”

John opened his mouth to reply but Dawson beat him to the punch, “Dr. Watson is hungry, Mr. Holmes. Don’t you think you should feed him by now?”

Sherlock sat up, and milk was indeed leaking out, his chest so swollen with sweet, fatty fluid that he looked like a actual _female_ cow with six full breasts. John gasped and his cock hardened so rapidly that he had to quickly and discreetly adjust his erection. Not discreetly enough by the glance Sherlock threw him. 

“I’d love to,” Sherlock replied, “But it’s a rather private affair. Surely you understand?”

“Not really,” Dawson drawled.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Sherlock snarled, “It’s arousing to us. We’ll be frantic with it.”

“I’m sure I can manage to look away at the appropriate time.”

“I’m sure I’d rather keep my lover to _myself_ ,” Sherlock replied, eyes flashing possessively as he shifted forward to press his chest against John’s lap as if to hide his arousal from sight.

“I’m not interested in _him_ ,” Dawson replied with a scoff, “I have a charming young man of my own and no interest in milking of _that_ sort.”

John blushed in horror at the explicit conversation, but Sherlock snarled angrily and stood up, milk soaking his shirt so much that John could see the pink flesh beneath. He swallowed hard as his body ached with so many needs that his head spun.

“If you were a gentleman you’d at least let us lay on that side of the desk!”

Dawson’s eyebrow shot up, “And give you access to papers in here? Is that it? You think something is here? Or perhaps a weapon…”

The man started rifling through the desk while Sherlock sighed in frustration, “I just want _privacy_ , but by all means search uselessly through that desk. Perhaps you’ll find some hard candy to keep your useless mouth occupied!”

Dawson snorted but continued to look through the drawers.

“At _least_ let us use a cupboard or something!” John snapped in frustration, close to the breaking point, “What are we going to do? _Mop_ you to death?!”

Sherlock’s milk was damp on his legs. No quite soaking through, but making him even more aware of it. He was panting with desire, his body trembling with lust. He was ready to take Sherlock right there on the floor and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he found himself pinning Sherlock to the table between their chairs as he snuffled his neck and rutted against Sherlock’s hardening cock.

A door opened and Dawson let out a sigh, “Fine. Get in. Don’t try anything or I’ll happily disable your feet, which is just _guaranteed_ to lure in the predators nearby.”

John gathered Sherlock up and herded him into the doors, snarling viciously at Dawson for being too close to his food. 

Once inside he pressed Sherlock to the wall. His breasts were swollen and hard, they had to be agonizing.

“Excellent work, John. How did you know about the… John? _John!”_ Sherlock hissed, but John was too far-gone. 

Desire and hunger had driven him past the point of reason. He tore Sherlock’s shirt open, groaning and palming at his erection as he admired the sight of the leaking orbs in front of him. He was at an advantage over Sherlock in the darkness. Unlike fruit bats, vampire bats could see heat, so Sherlock’s gorgeous body appeared to him in a rainbow of colours, the hottest parts appearing red where his blood and milk pulsed in his body. 

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” John soothed as he crowded him, “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be gentle. It won’t hurt… much.”

“John listen to me. I’m… oh!”

John had bent his head and taken the nearest teat into his mouth, pulling it far into the back so as not to create chaffing. He used his lips to grasp the base of the nipple and urge the milk forward and then pressed his face into the warm flesh. Milk sprayed into his mouth and he guzzled it down, making a pattern of press, suckle, swallow, press, suckle, swallow. Sherlock was panting above him, one hand tangled in his hair as John’s long arms extended above them, creating a tent of his wings to protect his beloved. Sherlock’s hand extended out and touched the thick wings. John knew they felt of warm leather and hoped Sherlock loved the touch the way he was drowning in the detective’s scent. The warm fluid flooding his mouth had him moaning with pleasure and growing satisfaction. He guzzled enough to take the pressure off and then dove for the next one, swallowing it down greedily. He never had to pause for breath; part of his evolution was a separate nasal cavity. He could breathe and drink at the same time, no tedious halts required. He used that fact to full advantage has he dropped to his knees and started on the next set of teats, pulling Sherlock forward a bit. He planted his hands on John’s shoulders and whimpered as he took long pulls of his milk.

“John… gods… this doesn’t feel like the pump… at all.”

John moaned around his mouthful and gave that teat another pull before moving onto the second. This time he lowered a hand to fondle it’s brother while he suckled, fingering the nipple and spreading milk around the swollen, sensitive nub. Sherlock gasped and hissed in pain, but was soon sighing as the natural oils in the milk soothed his tender flesh. John moaned approval and dropped lower for his final two morsels. These he drained completely, feeling his stomach full to the point of swelling as he greedily gulped down the milk. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “You must be able to walk so we can escape.”

John rolled his eyes. If it got that bad he’d purge some, but there was _no way in hell_ he wasn’t going to enjoy every second of this moment. So saying he released the last nipple, stroking it soothingly to rub the milk in as he had the others. Sherlock whimpered, his hips bucking as pleasure shot through his body. John noticed one further object to indulge in his oral fixation and quickly dropped his second hand down to undo Sherlock’s trousers.

“John…” Sherlock stammered, his tone slightly panicked.

“Shhhh,” John soothed, nuzzling the clothed erection beneath Sherlock’s flies, “Let me give you what you need.”

“Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned as John slipped his cock free and swallowed it down. 

Down into the back of his throat where he swallowed hungrily, treating his cock the way he had his teats, and Sherlock was swearing loudly and tugging at his hair. John pulled back, worried he’d used _too_ much suction, but Sherlock only swore louder and shoved his head back down. John moaned his claws grasping at Sherlock’s hips as the man fucked his face, hips snapping forward as he chased his release with the same eager need that John had fed from his breasts. It wouldn’t be long. Sherlock was swelling in his mouth already, his words devolving into shocked cries as his pleasure mounted and then… _there._

Sherlock was coming down his throat, his cock buried in his mouth as John swallowed around the head with a contented sigh through his nose. Sherlock whimpered and staggered back against the wall, sliding down the floor. John climbed into his lap, dragging his trousers and pants down with an angry snarl, grateful for once that they fastened not in the middle but on either side of his wings. The front fell down like a curtain and his bare front was revealed. Sherlock snaked his hands beneath John’s wings to cup his clothed arse and John braced his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, pressing his hard cock between the now-soft swells of Sherlock’s udders. He rolled his hips, moaning as his cock slid over the milk-drenched chest with ease. Sherlock urged John to move faster and the man panted as the slide relieved his anxious body. Sherlock bent his head and John felt his cock slip into something warm and wet. He cried out in excitement and Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the head of his cock to suckle softly, his tongue teasing the slit before sliding beneath his foreskin.

John shouted through his orgasm, his voice echoing in the small chamber, just barely stopping himself from letting out a cry that would pierce Sherlock’s sensitive ears as they flicked about in his curls. With a whimper he pulled his sensitive member from Sherlock’s still suckling mouth and let himself sag down in his lap, straddling long thighs and sighing against his shoulder. Sherlock’s hands shifted about, stroking John’s hair and long ears as they sagged back against his head like the lop-earred bunny his mother had been.

“Beautiful,” John whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice tense, “We _must_ escape. There’s a hatch above us. It leads into a crawl space. From there we can escape into the rest of the cathedral.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Just give me a second.”

“We don’t _have_ a second. Dawson will have heard we’ve finished.”

John dragged himself up and gave Sherlock a boost to the hatch, which lifted with an ominous creak. Sherlock scrambled up, his hooves scratching John’s shoulders. Miraculously, Dawson did _not_ throw open the door. John extended his long arms and pulled himself up as if exercising, and Sherlock tugged him the rest of the way up. They shut the hatch and Sherlock quickly pushed a crate on top of it, using his hooves with his back braced against a support beam.

“Quickly,” Sherlock whispered, helping John re-attach the front of his trousers to the rings.

“Sherlock…” John started, noting his trembling hands.

“Not now, John!” Sherlock hissed.

They crawled quickly through the dusty area, John leading the way, with Sherlock snarling in frustration as his cloven feet clacked loudly on the ground behind them. 

“Brace yourself, John,” Sherlock whispered, “They’ll likely attack once we emerge. Even if there’s still food in the cafeteria there’s no way they’ll be able to resist me. Being trapped like this… fresh meat nearby…”

John nodded. His stomach was sloshing with milk. He needed to sick just a bit up to make movement easier. He chose the nearest crate and stuck a long finger down his throat, ignoring the disgusted sound that Sherlock made. He wiped off his mouth and carried on. When they reached the next hatch Sherlock slid it open and John peered out. The ground was full of sleeping predators and the smell of blood was thick on the air. Sherlock was right. They’d turned on each other at least once, though they looked peaceful enough at the moment. John slipped out, using his agile claws to cling to the decorative tiles and move across the ceiling. He would make a distraction so Sherlock could escape without being seen. He crawled down near a doorway, his motions silent as starlight, and the change to upside-down easy for him. He opened the door there as silently as possible, revealing a large chamber on the other side with a frigid draft blowing through. 

The predators stirred and John slipped through the doorway via the top and crawled upwards. Once there he gave the echoing chamber an amused smirk and let out a high-pitched scream, imitating a dying animal. It was an old tactic, but one that worked nonetheless. There was a stampede of vicious beasts into the room, all nashing teath and drooling on the floor. Some fought amongst each other while others guarded young or stayed mainly passive despite the actions of the others. These were not herd creatures and would not behave as such, though some were clearly dividing off into packs. They were sniffing about, trying to find the animal that had screamed. One rose to the front and started snarling orders and John winced as he realized they were dividing up to search. They weren’t as feral as Sherlock had hoped, they were still organized. 

Sherlock’s hooves made a horrid clatter as he dropped to the floor in the other room and John quickly rushed back as several predators ran for the doors. He got inside and slammed the door shut, dropping down to plant himself against it to block the door while scrambling for a lock that wasn’t there.

“Sherlock?! A plan?!”

“Window!” Sherlock shouted, shoving at it aggressively. 

It wasn’t budging. He ducked his head and shoved it through the stained glass while John shouted at him to stop. Glass broke and a frigid breeze blew through. Sherlock snatched coats off the ground that had been being used as bedding, pulling one on and holding the other out. John was being shoved at the door, his feet scrabbling for a hold as fingers were pinched as three on the opposite side tried to shove through. Then the shoving stopped. John knew this game well enough. He counted to three and then through the door open by standing behind it. The three predators came straight through and toppled to the ground in a heap. 

Hyenas!

John quickly followed Sherlock out the window he’d broken open, strong jaws with fetid breath snapping behind him. He made it out only to find that there was a barrier of snow in front of the window that Sherlock was frantically climbing through as if swimming. John scrambled after him, a slash to his calf spurring him on, but it only tore his pants. He was shaking with cold by the time they got to the top of the snow pile… only to topple down the side of the drift and sink into the softer stuff below.

“Bloody hell!” Sherlock snarled angrily, shoving at John where he’d landed on him. John climbed off, his jaw chattering, and Sherlock got to his feet as well as he could and wrapped the now snow-covered coat he’d stolen around his wings, buttoning it closed around them as he held himself tightly. Sherlock brushed snow out of the hood and pulled it up, tightening it around John’s ears. 

“Okay? Alright?”

“N-not really. Neither are you.”

Sherlock nodded, and they both looked up the snow dune to see three hyenas- two larger women and one skinny man- slowly stalking towards them. John and Sherlock scrabbled through waist deep snow, Sherlock scrambling upwards as he had the use of his arms. John floundered, tried to free himself from the coat, but found he was helpless. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted, “A little help here!”

A gun rang out and John’s head swung towards the sound, ears trying to fly up despite the hood in his way. What he saw when he got his bearings was Dawson, dressed warmily and grinning wickedly. He raised the gun again and two more shots rang out. The yips behind him said it all, but he glanced back to be sure. Three headshots. In the dark. Dayumn. 

“Tally ho!” Dawson shouted cheerily, and then vanished into the dark in the direction of the street. 

Sherlock grasped John by his trailing coat sleeves, flung them over his shoulders as if he were a backpack, and began to use all the strength in his muscle-bound legs to drag them towards the street. He was huffing in no time, but John knew his friend’s strength would hold out and the movement would keep him warm. 

“Why did he leave?” John asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Sherlock grunted, out of breath.

“You? Don’t care to know something? Did he shoot you too?”

Sherlock scoffed, ignoring the question and continued to pull him. 

They soon staggered to a halt, dropping in the snow with John draped overtop of him.

“Just a moment,” Sherlock gasped, “Catch my breath.”

“We’ll freeze. It’s below zero out here!” John gasped. 

“You’re keeping me warm,” Sherlock insisted, “As was that walk.”

The wind kept from his bare parts by the coat was only a minor improvement. It was getting colder and colder by the second and his feet were unshod since he’d kicked off his boots for the climb. He curled his toes and shivered, burying his face against Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock, you’ll stiffen up. Get up.”

Sherlock groaned in response.

“ _Get up!”_ __

“John, I’m _tired_. I…”

“Now soldier! March!” John barked out.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet again, snow clinging to his face and eyelashes as he glanced over his shoulder at John. He gripped the sleeves tightly and John made an effort to help him push through the snow. They made it to a car parked on the street and John was leaned against it as Sherlock cleared out a doorway, his breath wheezing as the cold got into his lungs. Finally the door was opened and John was shoved in first. Sherlock clamoured in after and sat there shaking as Sherlock hotwired the car with trembling hands. A sputter and the car started up. 

“We’ll smother,” John gasped, meaning the snow blocking the exhaust.

“Wait here.”

“Sherlock don’t!” 

Sherlock hurried out of the car, shutting the door behind him, and John could hear him digging behind them. Finally he scrambled back and collapsed into the car with his head in John’s lap. John struggled with the coat but still couldn’t get free. He sighed and let his head fall back as hot air started coursing through the car. He glanced down at the meter and saw it was halfway full of petrol. They’d survive the night and by then hopefully there would be emergency vehicles out to rescue them. 

Morning came and John started leaning forward to honk the horn in the standard S.O.S. pattern. An hour and a half dozen angry snarls from Sherlock later someone scraped snow off of the other window and spoke sharply in Russian. John spat out what few words he knew (Hello, Bathroom, and Door… maybe) and Sherlock took over in perfect Russian. Of course. 

They were routed out of the car and safely delivered to a rather miserable shelter where Sherlock commandeered another emergency crew to drop them off at their hotel, apparently by telling them a good joke. Once there Sherlock headed straight for their room without listening to John’s shouts to get him out of that damn coat. He got upstairs, plugged in his phone, shouted at it while it powered up, and then sat there flipping through the phone until he turned a terrible shade of pale and dropped it onto the floor.

“Sherlock?” John asked, sweating through the coat, “Sherlock what is it?”

Sherlock stood slowly, taking deep, careful breaths, before crossing the room and gently unzipping John’s coat. John sighed in relief as he stretched out his arms and wings, but quickly focused on how shaken Sherlock was.

“What happened?” He asked again, his voice soft.

“The Palace of Westminster. House of Lords. Big Ben. All gone.”

“No,” John whispered. He staggered to the bed and sat down, hand over his mouth in horror, “How?”

“A bomb. Beneath the ground in the tube tunnels. No one knows how it got there. Mycroft had his men searching high and low, but without _me_ there…”

“They had no chance. That _damn_ cult!” John stood up and paced the room in a full on rage, knocking things over with his wings and snarling angrily, “I need a walk!” 

XXX

John entered the room as silently as possible, determined not to wake up a likely knackered Sherlock. He needn’t have bothered. Sherlock was awake and on the opposite side of the bed, only his head and sagging ears visible, as he talked into the phone with a shaky voice. John paused, assuming he was getting bad news about his brother, but the sympathetic hand he would have laid on his shoulder ended up hovering over the bedspread as Sherlock’s words reached his ears.

“I don’t know if it’s that something is _wrong_ with _me_. What if John did everything right and _I’m_ the one who’s… _wrong_?! John would never actually _hurt me_ … would he?” Sherlock asked in a plaintive voice.

“Oh gods,” John whispered.

Sherlock spun, his face a picture of fear that was quickly quelled beneath a mask of indifference, “Lestrade, I have to call you back. Goodbye.”

John was backing up, horror filling him as he replayed everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Sherlock flirting; Sherlock getting them into the closet with that _deception_. John pouncing on him like so much meat. John going a step further to _sucking him off_ , despite the fear in Sherlock’s voice just before he’d wrapped his lips around his cock. 

“Sherlock, did I _rape_ you?” John asked in horror.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock stated, standing up and straightening his clothes as if he _hadn’t_ just been all but crying into the phone. 

“Sherlock… that’s not a question you just brush off.”

“It’s not normally a question one just _asks_ ,” Sherlock pointed out, striding over to a mirror, probably to check that his ‘lying face’ was in full effect. It was. John was having a damn hard time figuring out what was truth and what wasn’t.

“Sherlock, if you didn’t want any of that, if you feel violated _at all-_ “

“You sound like Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“Oh gods, I did, didn’t I? I raped my best friend,” John sank down onto the bed in horror, and then jumped up just as quickly, moving towards the wall so as not to make Sherlock feel trapped or threatened, “Look, you can stay in this room. I’ll get another.”

“They won’t _give_ you another. You came with me and I’m _prey_ , remember?”

“Yes, but I never meant to make you _feel_ like you were!” John replied, letting his internal agony out without meaning to. 

_Smooth move, John. Make the victim feel as if you’re a victim, too!_ __

Except that his words had a profound affect on Sherlock, who suddenly relaxed and smiled at John fondly.

“John. Thank you.”

“For what?” John asked, still horrified and disgusted with himself.

“For that.”

“For _what_?” John demanded to know.

Sherlock crossed the room and crowded into _John’s_ space, pressing his lips fleetingly over his, “For saying you don’t want me to feel like prey.”

“Sherlock… I’m completely confused,” John admitted.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, his expression fond, “Are you still hungry?”

“No,” John replied, and his stomach growled to disprove his words.

Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt immediately, “I’m full to the brim. Come and eat. You can have some blood, too, if you can take it without causing too much damage?”

“Sherlock, I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea,” John replied, even as his eyes roved hungrily over Sherlock’s body.

“I am,” Sherlock replied, “I need to get used to this. For now do as you did before, put yourself in a non-threatening position. We’ll get past my instincts, John.”

Sherlock sat down in the chair he’d been pumping in before this whole mad situation occurred and John knelt before him, keeping himself lower and less threatening as he settled between Sherlock’s thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” John told him as Sherlock massaged his flesh to get his milk flowing.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock nodded, his mind clearly on the task at hand.

“I’ll fall in love with you, Sherlock,” John warned, “I don’t think I can stop myself.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock chuckled, “You already _are_.”

Then he pressed John’s face to his chest and John drowned his moan of longing on a full nipple and a mouthful of hot milk. 

XXX

They couldn’t get out of Russia. First due to the damned snow, then due to several unfortunate events, and even if they could there were literally _no_ planes headed anywhere near London. The entire city was on lockdown. John was no longer surprised that Lestrade hadn’t called him to demand an explanation over Sherlock’s frightened phone call, he probably had his hands _more_ than full! 

Speaking of full, John still hadn’t gotten that bit of blood from Sherlock. Every time he fed from him, which was now a regular occurrence, Sherlock would balk at the sight of John’s bared teeth. He’d go completely pale and still, and even while stammering for John to just ‘get on with it’ the vampire bat was completely unable to do so. He just couldn’t stand the stench of fear emanating from Sherlock’s body. They’d also gone no further sexually, but John was fine with that. A wank and a suck here and there was enough for him until Sherlock relaxed with him more. Besides, it was nice just to have someone playing with his dick on a regular basis. 

John looked up from his musing while watching the news to see Sherlock had flung himself out of bed and was striding back and forth across the floor. He was naked, but his teats were well depleted, leaving him his usual lithe self. It looked a good deal different to see him striding about like that with his nipples and knob hanging out, though. 

“Stop snickering,” Sherlock snapped at him.

“Look, I know you’re bored but…”

“I’m not _bored_ ,” Sherlock snapped, “I have a singular puzzle in front of me, I just can’t _do anything_ about it! This damn group keeps stepping in our way!”

“Group?” John asked in confusion. 

Sherlock stopped and gave him a withering stare, the sort he usually reserved for Anderson. 

“Okay,” John sighed, “What did I miss?”

“A flight delay due to birds,” Sherlock pointed out, holding up his fingers to tick them off, “That conveniently left the second my milk was so full I was near _tears_ with pain, causing us to miss our flight while you did filthy things to me in the public loo.”

“Oh yeah,” John grinned, “That was nice.”

“ _Nice_?” Sherlock took a slow breath as though trying to keep his temper, “John. _Pay attention!”_

“Right, yeah. Delayed flight. Flights get delayed all the time.”

Sherlock ticked off a second finger, “A taxi driver incapable of finding his way around Russia with a decidedly _fake_ Russian accent, causing us to miss another flight.”

“You two were speaking Russian the whole time, how did…”

Sherlock ticked off a third, “A murder mysteriously pops up that three different detectives simply _can’t_ solve without me.”

“No, see, _that’s_ a normal occurrence,” John stated firmly, “That’s why you’re so demanded in England.”

“Fourth,” Sherlock continued as if uninterrupted, “Our concierge hasn’t changed.”

“Umm?” John wondered, not sure how that was relevant.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, rubbing at his forehead, “For pity’s sake… _he never goes on break or sleeps_.”

John blinked in confusion and then his eyes widened in shock. Sherlock had been taking regular trips down to the lobby to ‘stretch his legs’, sometimes dragging John along. It was true, now that he mentioned it. The same bloke was behind the counter _every single time_. Sometimes he looked tired, but for the most part he was perky and eager to ask them what they needed and point out he’d find a way to provide it. 

“He’s Russian,” Sherlock answered John’s unasked question, “Apparently our _fan club_ extends to Russia. Perhaps even beyond as one of the flights that were canceled on us hailed from _France_.”

“So we’re being kept here,” John replied in surprise, “Why? For nefarious purposes? Or to ‘protect’ us again?”

“Who knows?!” Sherlock ranted, throwing his arms up, “I’d hoped that by eliminating the Russian element- namely that dog-woman detective- we’d be free of them, but it seems not!”

John nodded, “I’d wondered why you’d purposely gotten me to go after her when Dawson was the bigger threat.”

Sherlock snorted, “Sex clearly addles your brain. As a military man you should _know_ that guns don’t necessarily equal the highest threat level.”

John frowned at Sherlock, “I didn’t think he was the bigger threat level because he had a gun, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued pacing, but John was insistent.

“Sherlock,” John pressed, “I’m serious. Dawson is dangerous. If you don’t think so then _you’re_ missing something for a change.”

Sherlock paused to give John a baffled look, which was rather fun on _his_ face for a change, “What?”

“Dawson. Is. A. Huge. Threat,” John insisted.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, “He’s just a mousy little man- literally and figuratively- with a sheep personality, calmly following the lead of some larger organization. He didn’t even have the guts to protect his comrade when she was being attacked. I know, because I was expecting him to try to shoot you. He just sat there and watched you rip out her throat.”

“Exactly,” John nodded, “Play that scene over in your head again. _Pay attention to his facial expressions_.”

Sherlock’s face went a decided blank and John watched him sink into his mind palace. He must have replayed several scenes, or replayed that one over and again, because it took quite some time for him to come back up.

“John?” Sherlock asked, looking alarmed, “He wasn’t shocked. Not even a bit. Not even in the way someone familiar with bloodshed would be.”

John nodded, “He wasn’t bothered at all.”

“He _cheered_ after shooting three people.”

John nodded again, his face a grim mask, “I thought perhaps he was Moriarty, but the scents don’t match up. That doesn’t mean he _wasn’t_ though.”

Sherlock took to pacing again, tugging at his curls, “How could I _miss_ this?”

John shrugged, “Maybe you’re not used to seeing it? I mean, how often do you meet an honest-to-goodness sociopath?”

“Never,” Sherlock replied, “It’s very rare and they’re exceptional actors.”

John nodded, not surprised Sherlock hadn’t lumped himself in with sociopaths. He might use that term, but it was mainly intimidation as far as John could tell. Sherlock wasn’t a sociopath- he felt too many honest emotions for that. John suspected some spectrum of Autism or Narcissistic Personality Disorder along with poor social structure as a child. Why two children in a row would be born that way was the more alarming part. What had his parents been _up_ to?

“Let’s get room service!” Sherlock decided out of the blue.

“What? Why?” John wanted to know, but Sherlock was already dialing their phone and then babbling into it in perfect Russian, “Sherlock, we can’t afford that!”

Sherlock hung up the phone and hurriedly dressed. It wasn’t long before their food arrived and Sherlock calmly shoved the man from the desk downstairs against the wall, his hand pinned behind his back with only Sherlock’s thumb. John tried to ignore the twitch in his trousers at the sight of Sherlock being so intense and powerful.

“Couldn’t resist, could you?” Sherlock taunted into the cat-man’s ear as his tail lashed against Sherlock’s calf, “You just had to come up yourself. I wasn’t enough that you’re all but _stalking_ us downstairs. Who is Dawson?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” The man cried out while John carefully checked the hall and then shut and locked the door.

“Dawson. The mouse with no fear in his eyes. Surely you’ve _noticed_ him?”

“Nobody notices him,” The cat replied, fear in his voice, “Not if you want to go unnoticed yourself.”

“Who? Is? He?”

“I don’t know his real name! He uses a different one at every meeting. It’s a fucking joke! He doesn’t even look the same half the time. We only know it’s him because of that damn _smile_.”

“You let someone into your private meetings without _recognizing_ them?” John demanded.

“It’s a big society, ya?” The man pointed out, “People come from all over. If they’re passing through they drop in.”

“Then you’ve got some sort of communication method,” Sherlock pointed out, “A way for them to know that you’re meeting there and at that time.”

Silence. Sherlock pressed harder with his thumb and the man cried out in pain, “It’s for your own good, friend! Please, don’t make me talk! They’ll throw me out and then who knows who they’ll put downstairs?! Maybe someone you won’t like.”

“I already don’t like you,” Sherlock pointed out, “I want to go _home_. People are stopping me. That makes me _angry_.”

“I’ll get you home! I’ll get you home, but you _must_ stop asking questions.”

Sherlock considered it and then shook his head in decline, “No, I’d rather get information. What is the name of your organization?”

“No! Never!”

“John,” Sherlock decided, “Get a knife off of that cart.”

“You wouldn’t!” The man stammered in fear while John made a show of selecting which knife he preferred, “I’m a good man! I’m on _your_ side!”

“How can we know that when you haven’t named your _side?_ ” Sherlock pointed out.

“Can I have his blood?” John asked calmly.

“Sure, why not?” Sherlock decided, “Toss me an apple? I’d prefer to watch than play.”

John moved in to take over the hold and threw the man facedown on the bed, pinning him with one long wing while he yowled and clawed at the bedding. He stilled when John’s free hand caressed the back of a paring knife down his cheek. 

“Poor knife selection,” John decided, “I prefer serrated. The tearing of flesh is rather a nice sound. That, and this sort of knife takes so much _longer_. I have to either stab or do several long cuts in the same area to get the sort of depth I want. Inconvenient, you know?”

“Enlightenati!” The man shouted, “We’re called the Enlightenati!”

“Go on,” John insisted as he glanced over at Sherlock for guidance. Sherlock looked… heated.

“We dispel fiction and help bring education and science into the light. We’ve been around for centuries, but we’ve recently focused in on Mr. Holmes due to his deductive reasoning. He’s brilliant. A paradigm of what our group stands for.”

“Well, this is nice,” Sherlock decided cheerfully, “I might like to join!”

“Sherlock,” John warned, and he pouted and motioned for John to go on.

“How do you meet?” John wanted to know, picking up Sherlock’s train of questioning from earlier.

“We have a graffiti system. The symbols are known to all members. When we want to have a meeting we hang a flag in the window that shows how many days till and what time.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock stated, “So disorganized. How are you managing _anything_?”

“Those are just local chapter methods,” The man argued, sounding defensive, “There are web forums that give us instruction. The leaders of each minor group have access to them only. I’ve never seen the forums, but our Head Owl references it.”

“Head Owl?” Sherlock asked, his voice disdainful.

“Owls symbolize intelligence, wisdom, observation…”

“I _know_ what they symbolize!” Sherlock snapped out angrily, “You call them all that? Or you’re lead by owls?”

“We call them all that,” The man replied, “Our Head Owl is a wolf-woman.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock purred.

“What do you lot want with us?” John wanted to know.

“With you? Nothing. With _him_? To preserve his cold reasoning and intellect.”

“So the same thing I want,” John shrugged, “Except I want him _happy_ as well, something he’s not going to be if you keep him trapped in Russia. We need to get _home_.”

“Okay. Okay, I can work with that. Just… let me up.”

John glanced at Sherlock who nodded, and he released the man. His long reach meant he’d be able to tackle _him_ long before he cold tackle John anyway. John spread out his wings above him as an ominous reminder and the cat backed down with narrow-eyed glare. 

“I’m assuming you still haven’t heard from Mycroft Holmes?” The man asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied, which was what John had suspected despite the fact that Sherlock had ignored his questions over the last few days. 

“Well,” The man purred, sitting up on the bed and fixing his clothes, “I _have_.”

A/N Oh, this one is so _obvious_ , but whoever gets it first still gets to push their prompt/WIP to the top of the list!  
  


[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/167536.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 4

 

**A/N People still have not gotten the reference in the previous chapter! Since I’ve been asked to post another chapter I’m just going to give it away rather than lose track of how many outstanding Easter eggs I have out there.** ****

**Enlightenati = Illuminati = Dan Brown’s _Angels and Demons._ I would have accepted just ‘Illuminati’ since it has other cultural aspects as well and has been hinted at in several forms from cartoons to sci-fi. ;)** ****

**(I heard you facepalm all the way in Amurica.)** ****

The silver fox was an apt name for DI Gregory Lestrade, one that he fit in both species and his sensual bearing. He was sex on legs, but adorably unaware of it from his tufted ears above his unkempt sideburns to his agile feet. He frequently took women home since his divorce, but was always surprised that they tripped over themselves to get to him. He was a paradigm of gorgeous man and sweet, justice-may-serve copper and Mycroft was completely smitten. From the tips of his tawny eyebrow ridge to his scaled, clawed, four toed feet, Mycroft was obsessed with the silver fox; which only made being forced to meet with him more torturous than ever before. Mycroft was debriefing Gregory on the information Sherlock had texted him from Russia, though how he’d managed to slip through Mycroft’s surveillance was a mystery, but it remained that there was present danger in England that he needed to attend to rather than go fetch his idiot sibling himself.

He had people on the situation in Britain right at that moment. Reliable MI6 people who had been in bomb squads and were well seasoned in the realm of terrorist activity, but there were no hints as to where the bomb _was_ and even Sherlock was clueless. He’d been texting Mycroft relentlessly, giving him the names of his contacts and how best to address them. Mycroft had sent out agents only to have contacts flee, marks vanish, and rumours fly. Sherlock was furious. He’d texted him that he had no time to pick up Mycroft’s mess- he was in the middle of an abduction and John was _hungry_. That had given Mycroft considerable pause and he’d contacted Lestrade immediately. Best send Sherlock’s handler to Russia.

Just as he’d been arranging for the DI to fly out to Russia, while simultaneously contacting his own people in Russia, there had been a dull roar and Mycroft’s underground office- his secondary one that doubled as a panic room for times of danger rather than the upper one in the Diogenes Club- had shaken from top to bottom. Dust had fallen, collecting in his feathers, and the door had jammed tight. Security protocal was activated and the room’s emergency lights came on… and then died. Even Mycroft’s specialized mobile was unable to make a call for several hours. Gregory had tried to break down the door, but it was reinforced with steel so Mycroft had called him off before he hurt himself. Besides, he couldn’t see the attractive display despite his powerful eyes. It was pitch black. No light meant no sight, not even for an owl and a fox. They’d tried winding up the torches stored for such an occasion but they hadn’t worked. Since they all came in the same package Lestrade had declared them defective and gone on a ‘Made in Britain’ rant that had quite offended Mycroft. They’d spent a few hours sulking and then Lestrade had gotten a call and Mycroft had slipped into the other room to find that _his_ signal was back as well. He’d contacted Anthea and a few others before turning off his phone to conserve battery power once more. 

There was food in abundance in his secondary office that doubled as a panic room, enough to satisfy carnivore, omnivore, or herbivore for quite some time, but it was tasteless utility bars and plain water for _days_ on end. Mycroft had no actual interest in leaving at this point. While the plumbing wasn’t functional he had an emergency supply of water and a recycling toilet and shower; outside of this small sanctuary there was likely rioting in the streets, military reign, and a distinct lack of decorum. However, _inside_ was a sexual tension that had escalated to the point of absolute misery… for Mycroft. As usual, Gregory was tediously unaware of the anxiety he was causing Mycroft. 

Mycroft was determined to avoid the disaster that was his parent’s undoing. Tawny owl’s mated for life, but most other species _did not_. Mycroft’s (birth) mother had been living in an omnivore city when she met their (sire) mother and had a passionate love affair. Marybeth had fallen head over heels in love with Joanna, a Guernsey cow with gorgeous long red hair. They’d married in a whirlwind that had horrified both families and Marybeth had lain three eggs over the course of their marriage- each lain within a month of each other as was the practice of owls. Sherlock was the youngest while Mycroft the eldest. Their second sibling they never spoke of. Then, within a few years of their hatching, Joanna moved on. She simply found greener pastures and never returned, mailing Marybeth the divorce papers without an explanation. Marybeth turned cold and angry, raising her three children without an ounce of the love Mycroft vaguely remembered; everything was fact, intellect, and an absolute avoidance of sentiment. Sherlock had been born with Joanna’s physical traits, if not her colouring, and their mother had despised him for it even as she pretended not to have that emotion. The end result was that she rarely acknowledged Sherlock no matter what he did to get her attention. His reaction to that was extremely dangerous behavior, which only John Watson had managed to put a leash on.

_Actually_ , Mycroft thought, _Sherlock might have it better. He at least swore off of ever being like her and has opened himself up to friendship. I on the other hand have to fear the same trap that my mother fell into with no supportive ‘chums’ nearby._

So saying he once again waved off Lestrade’s attempts to feed him. The idiot had no idea he was accidentally enacting a mating ritual, he was just trying to get Mycroft to eat a bit more. Mycroft had been eating sparingly due to the limited supply of food in combination with a lack of knowledge on when they’d be rescued. Also the less he ate the less he had to use the facilities. While he had no binding issues since his digestive system was a good deal simpler than Lestrade’s, it was discomforting to have to run to the dark toilet every day. That and the more he hiked down his trousers the more he was afraid Gregory would smell his arousal, which had recalled it was mating season and decided to become swollen and wet and _stay_ that way. It wasn’t that Mycroft was ashamed of his genitalia; he knew he was intersex, identified as such (unlike Sherlock who still considered himself male despite being intersex) and having a cloaca only aided in his gender identification. He could mate with either sex successfully, but had never chosen to due to his reluctance to give his heart to someone who would likely abuse it. Gregory was a divorcee, so Mycroft was _twice_ as reluctant to give his heart to him. Except he already had, and it was probably high time he admitted that. 

Mycroft shivered. He hated it when he shivered. Under the best of conditions it meant the short, downy feathers that covered most of his body ruffled and he spent an awkward 2.3 seconds looking like a feather duster. Under the worst conditions- which he currently resided in- it meant he _became_ a feather duster. As such he shuddered, let up a puff of dust from the earlier fallout, and then _sneezed_ , because it wasn’t already paramount that indignities be piled one upon the other in the hell that his life had become since Sherlock left for Russia on a wild goose chase. 

“Bless,” Lestrade grunted from his corner of hell.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft sniffed, “I think I shall take a shower.”

“Sure,” Gregory replied, “Just… don’t be long.”

Mycroft was surprised by the anxiety in Gregory’s voice. He supposed that the darkness was starting to take its toll on the fox. That and he thought he was keeping Sherlock’s frantic phone call a secret. It had happened while Mycroft was on the toilet in the other room, so Lestrade thought Mycroft was unaware. If John had hurt Sherlock in some way Mycroft wasn’t about to give him a chance to do it again. Mycroft shivered through his cold shower, then fluffed and preened until his feathers were dry. It took hours without a blow drier, and he hated every second. Normally he was quite proud of his plumage, short on most of his body, bare in some spots where pale skin showed through, and long on the two powerful wings that sprouted from his back, but in times like this the feathers were a nuisance. Finally Mycroft weighed the pros and cons of masturbating. The tension in the other room was palpable, but if he did so it was likely Gregory would hear or smell him at it. It was bad enough the man was likely completely aware that Mycroft was in a permanent state of arousal despite his apparent naïveté on the cause. 

Curious as to how swollen he still was, Mycroft reached down with two fingers and stroked between his thighs. Far down between his legs, about where a woman’s vaginal opening would be, was a single vent. Normally it was simply that: a hole in his body. Now, however, it was swollen with desire and two firm orbs almost like tiny testicles were pressing against the opening. They were the muscles that would push out semen or contract until semen pressed against _his_ vent were worked into his internal reproductive system. He was so aroused he’d nearly had an orgasm while passing waste the day before, a truly humiliating and repulsing event. He really _had_ to do something about it. 

Mycroft ran two fingers over the two orbs from his position squatting on the floor. It was awkward, but his wings fanned out around him balanced him and kept his body warm. Pleasure spiked through him and he sighed- the only noise he’d allow- as he felt the muscles begin to clench and unclench. They sucked at his fingers and he allowed them to dip inside of his body a moment before focusing on the orbs once again, which were as sensitive as the head of a man’s penis or the clitoris of a woman. Technically he didn’t require penetration to become pregnant or fertilize a woman or another intersex, but he was _capable_ of it and sometimes craved a full feeling. Like now, when a man was outside the bathroom door smelling of everything he desired. Mycroft wondered if his shaft would have a bone in it. The strength and rigidity in a penile bone was something erotic for Mycroft, who craved order and power above all else. It was only one more way in which Gregory Lestrade was a source of desire for him. Two if you counted the potential for a knot. That thought was enough to bring Mycroft to the brink of orgasm, and he pressed a finger inside while stroking the orbs with his thumb as…

Gregory screamed.

Mycroft was on his feet and pushing through the door, his thighs rubbing against his arousal driving him to gasp as he frantically sought out his captive companion. Gregory was rolling about on the floor near the couch Mycroft had insisted he sleep on since Mycroft could comfortably sleep sitting up in his chair. He was shouting and scratching at his arms and face.

“Get them off! GET THEM OFF!”

“Get _what_ off? Gregory! WHAT?!”

“Ants! Flees! Bugs all inside my fur! GET THEM OFF!”

“There’s nothing there! You’re hallucinating from the prolonged darkness and silence!” Mycroft shouted over his frantic cries, but the man was mad and continued to scratch at his flesh. The scent of blood caught Mycroft’s nose and he slapped him soundly, “COME TO YOUR SENSES!”

Whether the order or the strike, the man stopped attacking himself and went still, whimpering on the floor while Mycroft searched his arms, neck, and face for injuries. He’d torn his shirt partway off, the bottom buttons removed. Here was where he’d gotten enough leverage to break the skin, and Mycroft checked the depth of the wound on his stomach, pressing the button on his watch to give off enough illumination to let him see.

“Just a scratch, I think. You’re very lucky. Whatever that was, let it pass, Gregory. You can’t harm yourself like that again. What medical supplies I have are limited.”

He stood to fetch the first aid kit, intending on cleaning the wound, but Lestrade grabbed at him and pulled him back down. The watch went out and they both stilled, waiting for him to go mad again, but the man was sane once more. 

“Just… stay.”

“I must disinfect…”

“I’ll use my tongue. I can reach it. Just… stay. You’re keeping my skin from crawling. Rub my arms? Thank you.”

Mycroft stroked his arms, hands, and face, petting him like a child until he was calmer. Then he bent double and Mycroft’s arousal made itself fully known again as he pictured what the man was doing while bent over far enough to _lick his own stomach_. 

“I’m jealous,” Mycroft chuckled, “I require _showers_ to get clean.”

Gregory huffed out a laugh, “I use those too, you know. You trying to tell me something?”

“No. You smell… fine.”

“I smell like _fear_. Not like you…”

“Gregory, please don’t. This is humiliating enough!” Mycroft snapped, pulling away, but the man clutched at his wrists and pulled him back.

“No! Don’t leave me again! I’ll be quiet. Please!”

“Hush,” Mycroft soothed, going back to petting him. He still had hold of Mycroft’s wrists so he was pulled to kneel over him, his hands only in reach of Lestrade’s face. He petted his ears and that little tuft on either temple that he constantly tried to keep trimmed because he thought it looked silly. It didn’t look silly. Mycroft wanted to _preen_ it. He would have traded his lips for a beak like his mother had if he could just run it through those tufts.

Gregory’s scent was changing from frightened to aroused but Mycroft was too lost to do anything about it. He’d been on the cusp of orgasm and now he was running his hands over the man he desired. He’d lost himself in it, realizing with growing horror that his hands had strayed from safe areas to his chest and stomach before working their way up to his chest again from under his open shirt. Gregory moaned and arched his back as Mycroft’s fingers accidentally teased his nipples and Mycroft gasped, pulling his hands away.

Gregory responded this time by sitting upright and snatching Mycroft against him. They were both on their knees now and he was stroking his fingers through Mycroft’s soft feathers, the thicker on top of his head down to the downy along his jaw that he shaved each day. His neck and shoulders were bare and the rest of his body only had thin smatterings of it, almost resembling hair, and was completely exposed to Gregory’s explorations. He tried for a kiss, but Mycroft turned his face away.

“Keep me sane, Myc,” Lestrade whispered his voice hoarse with desire, “What could it hurt?”

“Considering I can get _pregnant_ , quite a bit,” Mycroft revealed testily.

“I’ve got a rubber.”

_Of course you have. The only question is whom you were planning on using it on._

“I’m afraid the answer is still no,” Mycroft replied, but didn’t push the man away.

“Just let me touch you, then,” He reasoned, “Please, it keeps me grounded, and you _need_ this. I can tell you do.”

_Say no. Say no!_

Lips found his in the darkness and he melted against the man, unable to stop his own rising need to be touched from overwhelming his normally powerful brain. Mycroft pressed firmly against him and they were soon stroking every available inch of flesh. Lestrade’s shirt was stripped off. Soft fur flowed between Mycroft’s fingers. The thicker thatch of feathers at Mycroft’s mons pubis was gently explored. He stilled in alarm. Some found cloacaii to be repulsive, but Lestrade’s soft moans only indicated contented pleasure. He pressed lower and Mycroft shifted his legs apart with a needy gasp. Firm fingers found him wet and pulsing with need. 

“Gods, how do you stand it?” Lestrade whispered against his neck as he nuzzled the sensitive flesh there, “Let me?”

“Yes!” Mycroft gasped, pressing his hips forward. 

The man’s fingers were _far_ too talented, and the realization that his skill was learned should have hurt, but at the moment all Mycroft knew was that his most intimate part was being stroked with the perfection of a master pianist working his trade. A soft metallic sound indicated Lestrade tugging his belt off and opening his trousers one handed, followed by the sounds of a hand stroking along a damp shaft erstwhile unheard by Mycroft outside of porn. He had no recollection of being lowered to the ground, but he soon found himself on his back gasping in pleasure. His wings arched beneath him, lifting his shoulder’s off the ground to press him firmly against Lestrade’s body. He immediately found the restriction unpleasant and tackled the man, flipping him onto his back where his wings could stretch over their bodies, curving them in an age old motion. 

“Oh gods, Myc!” Greg shouted out, grasping at his hips. Mycroft found himself grinding into the damp, hard shaft beneath him in a strange sort of tribbing/frotting combination, “Fuck, it’s like a _mouth_ down there!”

Mycroft could understand his thoughts. Those two round muscles were pulling at Lestrade’s cock, that _did_ have a lovely penile bone, as the man thrust up beneath him. He wasn’t inside of him, not yet, but Mycroft knew he was lost. Bird species didn’t require penetration to mate, so chances were his heart was already lost.

_In for a penny…_

Mycroft shifted his hips and focused on the head of Lestrade’s throbbing cock, driving them both wild with pleasure. His own sensitive flesh throbbed as climax approached, trying to suckle in and preparing to spray out all at once. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft gasped, “I’m close…”

“Y-yeah,” The man gasped, and then reached around to run his hand down Mycroft’s spine and caress his tail feathers. 

The simple action triggered a visceral response in Mycroft, and he arched his back as pleasure throbbed through his body. He heard himself shouting out but had no thought to silence himself. A fine mist of semen sprayed out of his vent, drenching Lestrade’s cock and abdomen, and apparently driving the man wild as he bucked frantically up in search of his own release. Mycroft’s orbs swelled to impossible proportions, nothing he’d ever experienced in his own awkward masturbatory attempts, and he found himself rolling into a second climax. The sensation of a multiple orgasm was so new to him that he was overwhelmed by it, gasping and sobbing out his pleasure as he clawed at Gregory’s chest. Mycroft felt the man’s hips rolling upwards and his knot rubbed against Mycroft’s orbs. Mycroft threw his head back and panted out a third climax as Gregory groaned and the thick scent of his musky seed filled the air. 

“Gods. Fuck. Oh fuck, Mycroft. Bloody hell.”

“Decease your swearing at once,” Mycroft muttered in an offhand way, his body trembling.

“Sorry, Gov’ner,” Gregory replied, his voice full of fond teasing, “Come here.”

Mycroft was tugged against him. He resisted at first, but when his hand touched Gregory’s chest he found the man had wiped himself mostly dry, hopefully with his _own_ shirt. He lay stretched across him, his wings twitching until they settled into draping across them both in a distinctly possessive fashion.

“I’ll need to see to it that I take a morning after pill when we get out of this mess,” Mycroft announced, “I might have…”

“Sshhhh,” Gregory soothed, stroking along the ruffled feathers on his head, “Not now. You’ve got a week to take that thing and we’ve no idea how long we’ll be here. Something comes of this we’ll deal with it. Whether it does or doesn’t this was… perfect.”

It was. It was painfully perfect. Mycroft felt he fitted against the man’s body in agonizing exactness. Their mutual pleasure, achieving results Mycroft had not been aware his body was capable of, was far beyond what he had ever expected to experience. The fact Gregory was so tactile afterwards could be attributed to the fact he had a knot and was used to being attached to his lovers for a bit afterwards, as the continued pulsing between Mycroft’s flesh gave evidence to. However, Mycroft found himself clinging to the man in hope, even as he pushed that pitiful, weak emotion down. 

XXX

Days passed. Mycroft spent what little battery life he had on contacting those able to keep things from becoming utterly catastrophic. He ignored his brother’s texts. He had to focus on keeping the British Empire from falling. Sherlock would survive. He had John and Lestrade seemed convinced they were okay; he’d trust him… for now. When Mycroft wasn’t pushing chest pieces around the world he was pressed into Lestrade’s arms. They did everything together; bathroom, showers, eating, sleeping, sex. Their bodies craved each other in obscene quantities, though to date Mycroft had not allowed penetration. Lestrade had one condom on him and one only, Mycroft was already concerned that he’d manage to get pregnant through the contact alone since his body was set up to shift semen inwards without penetration during a cloacal kiss. Also, he had it set in his mind that he couldn’t let Lestrade have the upper hand. 

So it was that one day their passion turned almost violent. It really was bound to happen what with two predators and so little stimulation besides touch, taste, and smell. Most thought birds weak predators capable only of sneak attacks, but Mycroft disproved that easily. His wings battered at Lestrade until he was curled up on the floor to protect sensitive organs. Mycroft found him in the darkness by touch alone, flipped him onto his belly, and dragged his hips upwards. He gripped his fluffy tail and lifted it high, kneeling up on one leg to expose his already dripping wet muscles. He pressed his swollen orbs against Gregory’s anus, mimicking the action the man wanted to perform on him, and proceeded to rotate his hips in a circular motion. He expected more fight, so he pressed his free hand against the back of his neck and gripped his scruff _tight_. The response was shocking. Lestrade whimpered and keened, pressing back against him eagerly. Mycroft was shocked enough that his anger was forgotten and he reacted with frantic need, tribbing against his sensitive scent glands just below his tail and the soft, furry orbs beneath his arsehole. The friction of fur against his tender orbs sent sharp jolts of electric pleasure up his body until they were both mad with lust.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck! It feels like your _rimming_ me! Myc! Mycroft! You bloody gorgeous…”

Lestrade babbled during sex, and Mycroft found it a curious combination of annoying and endearing. He pulled on his scruff, causing him to yip out loud, and then began to press more firmly against him. He was thrilled to be given the pleasure of having washed this part of him earlier. He could smell only delicious male scent. 

“Oh, fuck yeah, devour my ass!” Lestrade shouted, and then took himself firmly in hand. He was coming before Mycroft, which surprised him more than a bit as Lestrade had always made sure to tend to Mycroft’s pleasure first. 

The fox took advantage of Mycroft’s surprise and soon had him pinned to the couch where he buried his face between his thighs.

“Here,” Lestrade purred, “Let me return the favour. I’m going to eat your vent out until you pass out from coming so hard.”

So saying he pressed his long, flat tongue against Mycroft’s drenched body and proceeded to lap, lick, stroke, and probe into him. Mycroft writhed, his hands alternating between stroking and pulling on those grey, tufted ears. Lestrade groaned and tongue-fucked his vent with zeal. Mycroft could feel his orbs contracting around the tongue inside of him, easily the largest thing to be inside of his body since his own fingers were so thin and Gregory’s tongue was quite thick and long. He was wild with lust, his voice hoarse from screaming out his pleasure as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. He could smell his come in the air, both masculine and feminine; his muscles shook with the exertion of withstanding such a pleasurable assault. When he could take no more, when his body was reduced to whimpering through muscle spasms that were nearly painful, he pushed Lestrade’s head away and found the man clamouring up his body. Something spongy and firm pressed against his quivering muscles and they both stilled.

“Can I?” Lestrade whispered, his breath carrying the scent of their desire, “I’m so damn turned on it’s unnatural. Please, let me, Myc.”

“Gently,” Mycroft whispered.

Gregory sank in slowly, his cock still pulsing from his recent orgasm as his knot and penile bone kept him hard for Mycroft. He groaned, his cock obviously oversensitive but his need to be inside Mycroft overpowering him. Not for the first time in the last few days Mycroft wished that he could _see_ the man’s face. He pressed the button on his watch, but it didn’t light up this time. The battery had run out from overuse. Gregory’s phone was out as well. Mycroft’s was on its last bar. He couldn’t waste it to see this monumental event and he had no doubt that it was the only time he’d be feeling it. 

Mycroft was shocked at the ease with which his body accepted the hard member. Lestrade was thick and long, the sort of cock he found intimidating even in porn, but the feeling of being filled was so utterly delicious that he instantly pushed the small amount of pain out of his mind. He felt so full and complete. His hands stroked those ears and the thick scruff along Gregory’s jaw from their days without shaving implements. He was perfect like this, all wild and unaltered with his cock driving Mycroft wild. Finally he was seated, his breath hot on Mycroft’s neck. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Lestrade whispered.

“You can’t _see_ me,” Mycroft pointed out, his damn brain intruding on their moment together.

“I don’t need to,” Lestrade replied, and then pressed their lips together firmly before pulling away and continuing, “I’ve memorized what you looked like ages ago so I could dream about you every night.”

“Oh!” Mycroft gasped as Gregory cut off his reply by sliding almost all the way out again.  

The rhythm he took up should have felt familiar, but Mycroft’s body wasn’t used to it. He struggled, fighting against Lestrade’s thrusts for a moment until the man soothed him with gentle touches. Then he relaxed into it and soon found himself climbing to a fever pitch once again. He dug his fingers into his shoulders and rocked his hips until the man’s knot began to swell larger, pressing against his entrance.

“Myc… I’m close… in or out?”

Mycroft mentally flailed, a condition only Lestrade seemed to create, and then spat out his answer as if it were torn from him by force.

“In!”

The knot _hurt_. There was no denying that. He instinctively tried to pull away, but Lestrade instinctively held him in place, his teeth digging into Mycroft’s shoulder. If he’d thought he’d pleasured the man before he soon found he was gravely wrong. Lestrade screamed into his shoulder, his seed pulsing into Mycroft’s body with such heat that he felt scalded by the display. He held him tightly against him long after he’d gone lax. Mycroft stroked the hair on the top of his head and wallowed in the nearly textured warmth that was soon to be replaced by a cold and broken heart.

XXX

The banging was getting louder. They had donned their clothes for the first time in five days and were sitting cuddled on the couch. The air was filled with resignation. For nearly four days they had remained in constant contact, never leaving off touching each other to keep their sanity whole. Now they could hear the door being pried open, the metal screaming out in protest, and it felt like the harsh, cold crowbar was prying _them_ apart. When the doors opened it was Mycroft who pulled away first despite Lestrade grasping at his wrist and hissing his name.

“Turn those off!” Mycroft shouted, and whoever had shined the light into their prison shut it off quickly, “We’ve been deprived of light for five days. We’ll need to be reintroduced to it.”

Orders were shouted out by Anthea and Mycroft found himself being led out of the door with her hand carefully over his closed eyes and the other clasping his elbow. He already has his umbrella firmly in his grip, using it like a cane. Behind him Lestrade’s voice was heard as he answered questions and received care as well. Mycroft didn’t look back; he had no intention of ever seeing him again and wouldn’t add to his agony by taking the time to memorize what he looked like post-shag. He would _never_ fall into the trap that Marybeth had been destroyed by, even if it meant breaking his own heart to make sure Gregory never had that power over him.

XXX

_“Marybeth, why don’t you ever bake us anything interesting? All of the other children have muffins and cakes and cookies. We only ever have plain things,” Mycroft complained._ __

_“What’s the point of all those things?” Marybeth asked harshly, her feathers ruffling angrily, “They all taste the same.”_ __

_“No they don’t,” A six year old Mycroft pouted, “They taste_ good _!”_ __

_“To you,” Marybeth sneered, “They taste like paper to me. Everything tastes like paper. If I didn’t have to take care of you and your siblings I could stop eating and let all this tediousness cease to exist. Be grateful for what you have. By not spoiling you with sweet things to eat I’m avoiding you_ missing _it later when you end up bitter and alone like me. Trust me, Mycroft. If you base your life on fleeting pleasures you’ll end up falling for some pretty eyed thing some day and it will be your downfall. Books will never betray you, and if you never fall in love than you’ll never have to know the horror that is food tasting the way a book_ smells _.”_ __

_So saying his mother took up his favourite book from his nightstand, tore out the title page, and ate it before walking slowly out of his room with a bitter laugh._

Mycroft sat down to tea for the first time in over a week. He hadn’t eaten the last two days despite being home. He couldn’t make himself. Every time he saw food he smelled paper over the scent of the food and feared the worst. However he was starting to get light headed and he wasn’t fool enough to think digestion slowed his mind enough to merit starving himself like his brother did. He knew he had to eat _something_ eventually. Time to face facts. He took up his tea and sipped it, surprised at the pleasant taste. It was sweet, just the way he liked it. He took another sip and his stomach growled angrily. He was soon stuffing his face with biscuits without any heed paid to his manors. His mother would have been appalled at his quick step to the kitchen and the way he raided the fridge. He didn’t so much make a sandwich as simply eat all the things that make up a sandwich in random order. He sat on the floor and gorged himself. It tasted _divine_. It tasted like _freedom_. He didn’t have Marybeth’s curse. Joanne had proven useful for something. He wasn’t completely Tawny Owl. He could have sex with whomever he wanted and _never_ be forced to wilt away due to a broken heart as his mother had once her last fledgling had left the nest. 

Mycroft went upstairs, showered, changed into fresh clothes, and headed in to his underground office (the Diogenes club had been damaged) for the first time in days. He’d been avoiding it under pretense of needing to take care of things up above ground, going from one safe house to another with various other dignitaries. Now he faced his temporary prison/sanctuary and made peace with his decision despite the bitter-sweet smell of his lover still gracing the room. He’d ignored every call and text from Lestrade and would continue to do so. There was still danger there. He would be better off with someone who didn’t dredge up so much _sentiment_ in him. Let his brother wallow in romance with his winged lover, he was a staunch and upright man not prone to such silly nonsense and would remain so. After all, he was _free_ now. 

“It’s astounding,” He purred at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom, running his hand down his special back-less button down shirts, “Time is fleeting…”

He turned sharply and left the rooms, using his mobile to contact Eric and making sure his voice was carefully pitched to sound both sensual and professional. He was going to take what he wanted and never look back again. He was going to celebrate life without an ounce of celibacy. He felt _alive_. Awakened. _Released_.  
  


[CHAPTER 5](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/168223.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Chapter 5

 

In case you didn’t get it, the two references in the previous chapter were to Panic Room (2002) and Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975).

John and Sherlock returned to London in a private jet, landing in a deserted Heathrow airport. They walked through the darkened terminal with their pilot as a guide and exited onto equally deserted streets.

“Where is everyone?” John wondered.

“Military law is in effect,” Washburne replied with a shake of his scaled head, “Everyone’s got to be in their house by nightfall. My wife’s none too thrilled. We’re expecting a baby and we’re a bit strapped for cash. Getting permission to fly you boys is going to pay this months rent!”

“Well, that’s… good,” John replied, put off by his jovial disposition. He scooted closer to Sherlock, “Now what?”

“We go find my brother, of course,” Sherlock replied, “Or rather we find his minions since apparently he’s still buried under ten tons of rubble.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t put digging him out as a priority,” John wondered before shaking the pilots hand and slipping into one of Mycroft’s cars behind Sherlock. The pilot left in his own vehicle, a tag on the mirror proving he was allowed to be out past dark. 

“He ordered them not to,” Sherlock replied with a shrug, “He’s safest down there with air and provisions. What he needs is me running things in his name for the time being. Anthea’s been doing well enough batting his name around, but I’ve got more sway being blood and all.”

“So… you’re going to be in charge? Of England?”

“Of Britain, yes.”

“Gods help us all.”

“Relax, John. It’s not an official post. I’ll just be passing along Mycroft’s instructions and advice at a faster rate than Anthea can.”

“How will you be doing that? Anthea said he’s been out of contact.”

“Yes, well, luckily I’ve known him long enough and am intelligent enough to know what he’s thinking.”

“So… you’re going to guess what he’d do in a situation and advise accordingly?”

“I never guess, John,” Sherlock scolded.

“Gods help us all,” John sighed. 

As it turned out, it wasn’t as bad as they’d thought. They’d come as the clean-up was past the point of ‘finding dead or almost dead’ people. No one was panicked anymore, but people were starting to chafe under the military rule. John and Sherlock went on television since John suggested they use Sherlock’s international reputation to build the people’s trust. John did the talking while Sherlock smiled prettily at the camera and gave out a one-line statement that John had made him practice until it sounded both sincere and comforting. It only came off as a little bit sarcastic, so John was hopeful. 

The queen was alive, as were the reserve politicians since the old system of never having _everyone_ in the same place at once had proven itself efficient. The only issue was that five men and one woman running a country was a bit difficult, even when the queen rounded up relatives and trusted friends to take on temporary titles within parliament. Her first announcement, after her stirring speech on the terrible loss of life, was to inform the people that a vote would be held immediately. Each person running for a position would have a week to promote themselves via internet with a prominent figure as sponsor and then vote would be held everywhere except London. London itself was too disorganized, as evidenced by the disorganized attempt to get people into government. It worked, thankfully, and a few days after Sherlock arrived he was shunted out of his fake position and Mycroft was dug out of his panic room. 

He emerged looking like someone who had seen his own death played out before his eyes, pale and listless. Sherlock told John that something wasn’t quite right and began hanging about him with a concern that John had never known Sherlock was capable of feeling for his brother for a few days. Then Mycroft simply shook off whatever it was that had overwhelmed him and became downright _dapper_. Right in front of John and Sherlock he flirted with Anthea, something that left the woman staring at him in horror despite his rather suave technique. When she wasn’t receptive he flirted with Eric right in the middle of Buckingham palace (they were there for tea and John was trying not to think of their last visit there). Eric had seemed receptive and they’d chatted a bit closely for a while until Sherlock had suddenly stood up, walked across the room, and stepped between them with a biscuit in hand.

“Biscuit?” Sherlock offered, his eyes piercing Mycroft’s. John stood up to go and break up whatever bizarre brotherly rivalry involved cockblocking Mycroft when to the shock of everyone Mycroft slapped him soundly.

“Stay out of this!” Mycroft shrieked, his voice reaching a pitch John had never heard before. He was quickly between the two angry brothers.

“Now, now,” Eric soothed, “Let’s not be hasty. I know you two don’t always get on but…”

“Do shut up,” They both snapped at Eric. 

Eric looked affronted and gave John a bewildered look.

“Sherlock,” John asked, “What’s going on?”

“I just want Mycroft to eat this biscuit. It’s his favorite. I don’t see why he won’t.”

“If this is a mockery of my weight-” Mycroft hissed.

“You _know_ it’s not,” Sherlock stated firmly.

Mycroft reached passed John and snatched the biscuit off of the plate in Sherlock’s hand. He took a daintily bite, made a pleased sound, chewed and swallowed. 

“Thank you, Sherlock. It’s so kind of you to remember,” Mycroft cooed mockingly.

“You enjoyed that,” Sherlock stated with a surprised tone.

“Of course I did,” Mycroft snorted, “What did you think I’d prefer? _Paper_?”

Sherlock reeled back in shock, a reaction that would have made more sense when applied to the slap he’d previously received without reaction. John worriedly glanced back and forth between them both.

“What is going _on_?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said softly, then grabbed John by his elbow and all but dragged him from the palace. 

When they got back to 221B Sherlock set about pacing and looking frantic, stopping every few minutes to glance in the fridge as if he couldn’t recall the contents.

“Sherlock?” John asked, “What’s going on? Is something wrong with Mycroft? Or you?”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock snapped, “Of _course_ there’s nothing wrong! Except there _was_. John…”

Sherlock paused and turned to John, his face pale and drawn, and began speaking very fast, “John, I’ve been keeping secrets from you. I didn’t intend to, it’s just not something I discuss. Ever. I never have. I’m sure Mycroft knows… he couldn’t _not_ know being who he is and what I am. This isn’t the time to go into my past, though. Not ever, really. You just have to promise me: John, you can’t ever leave me.”

John stood stock still, shocked by Sherlock’s statement and wondering how to respond to it. A thousand thoughts whirled through his head, starting with _“Run, Forest, run!”_ And ending with “ _Did he just propose to me?_ ” Finally he said the only thing that made sense.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled at his hair, “This has nothing to do with _love_ John! It has to do with _food_. Your food! My food! FOOD!”

“Food?” John asked, feeling a bit rejected and _very_ confused.

“Food, John!” Sherlock ranted, and then paused suddenly, going pale and looking trapped, “I’m sorry, John. I have no idea what just came over me. I’ve been… anxious about feeding you directly from my vein.”

“You never have to,” John replied soothingly, “It’s not a requirement. I don’t mind you drawing it first…”

“ _I_ mind,” Sherlock crossed to him and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him close, “I mind that I’m not giving you everything you need.”

John’s heart fluttered a bit. His cock fluttered a good deal more. 

“I only need what you’re willing to give,” He replied automatically, something he’d said many times before.

“I feel the same,” Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were distant and John thought he might have been talking about something completely different.

John hesitated a moment and then leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock melted into the kiss with a low moan and they were soon snogging hungrily, Sherlock leaning against the cluttered kitchen table. When they broke for air John could see a bit of regret in Sherlock’s eyes, but he thought he knew what this was about this time.

“It’s fine, you know,” John smiled, “About the prophylactics.”

“The what?” Sherlock blinked.

“You’ve been worried about getting condoms so I can top you without getting you pregnant. It’s fine. I know we’re both clean and I _also_ know I’m not receptively fertile. So until the shops open back up again and start getting stock in we can have you top me. Unless that’s not your thing, of course.”

Sherlock blinked at him and then a smile danced across his face that lit up the room. 

“John, sometimes your simplicity is absolutely comforting.”

“Thanks… I think,” John replied uncertainly.

“Come to bed,” Sherlock insisted, “I’m ready now, I think. Wait until I’ve come and am relaxed and then… then you can have my blood.”

John surged forward for a kiss, wrapping his long wings around Sherlock’s body and groping everywhere and anywhere. Sherlock responded with a flirty moan, pulling him against him and starting to undo the clips along his hips. Once his trousers were kicked off he started on John’s jumper. They were stumbling their way to their bedroom, snogging like teenagers while discarding clothing along the way.

“You’re… sure… about… this?” Sherlock asked between kisses.

“M-hm,” John replied while suckling a few drops from an available nipple. He’d fed from Sherlock a few hours earlier so there wasn’t much there, but he still enjoyed the action and would indulge in it relentlessly.

“It’s just…” Sherlock pushed him away a moment, ignoring John’s annoyed glare, “All evidence suggests you would be a top. It fits based on your previous sexual history and preferences.”

John could _feel_ himself blushing, “You’re assuming I’ve never been with a man.”

“You… what?” Sherlock blinked, “You haven’t. You constantly defend your sexuality and…”

Sherlock paused and then groaned at his own oversight while John chuckled, “The army?”

“Yeah,” John blushed, “A soldier asked me for… comfort. We had no meds for his pain at the time so… yeah.”

“Oral?” Sherlock asked, his eyes implying he was certain he knew this time.

“Yeah,” John nodded with a chuckle, “I must have sucked him off three times in less than 24 hours before the evac helicopter got there. The release helped him sleep through the pain. I didn’t get off on it, but it still made me a bit… uncomfortable with myself and my sexual identity. Meeting _you_ with your unbearable sex appeal not long after just made me question myself more.” 

“Not sorry,” Sherlock smirked, and pulled John against him hungrily. John let his wings lay lax on the floor as Sherlock manhandled him onto the bed, sprawling them out while Sherlock tugged his hips up.

“Just… be gentle, yeah?” John worried at Sherlock’s rough movements.

“Right. Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “John, you have to _relax_ ,” Sherlock scolded, tapping his entrance with two fingers. 

John laughed at himself nervously and consciously relaxed his muscles. He felt himself open up a bit and Sherlock moaned at the sight.

“You’re… prepared? Other than this, I mean?”

“Yeah,” John nodded into the bedding, shifting his arms to grip the opposite side of the bed, “This morning.”

“In that case…” Sherlock leaned down, mouthing along the seam between John’s thighs and his wings. 

John had no tail to speak off, just a little nub where one might have been, but Sherlock nuzzled beneath it anyway. The feel of stimulation on his scent gland, which even pants and trousers for people without tails were designed to leave a gap to avoid too much touching, had John panting instantly. He whined and arched his back. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock moaned appreciatively, “I’m going to have to do this more often. You’re secreting.”

John groaned and buried his face in the duvet. He knew technically that he _did_ secrete glandular oils back there, but aside from making sure to wash that area frequently he’d never paid it any mind. He’d never had anyone actually put their _mouth_ there and was surprised how much he liked the feel of it as every swipe of Sherlock’s tongue seemed to burn right through him.

“D-does…” John stammered.

“It tastes _divine_ ,” Sherlock growled, grazing his teeth across the gland, “Your scent is melting on my tongue like a sweet.”

John growled enthusiastically and Sherlock pulled away abruptly, stepping off the bed and putting up his head submissively while John looked over his shoulder at him in confusion.

“That was a good growl,” John chuckled, “Get back here.”

“I know it was good,” Sherlock replied, watching John’s wiggling arse, “It’s just… I thought you’d be turning around and…”

“You thought I was going to tackle you to the floor? I might if you keep your damn tongue away for much longer!” John laughed, “Come on, Sherlock, don’t make me sit on your face.”

“It’s just...” Sherlock slid back onto the bed and spread John’s arsecheeks while he hummed eagerly, “I’m surprised you’re okay with me topping you.”

“Less talk. More lick.”

Sherlock nuzzled him again, but pulled away just as John let out a relieved sigh, “Damn it, Sherlock!”

“What if we start out and you don’t like it and…”

“Then I’ll _tell_ you! For the love of… Don’t you think predators bottom, Sherlock? Where do you think _baby_ predators come from? We don’t all bed prey! Now shut up and put out!!”

Sherlock buried his face between John’s arsecheeks and he bit his lip as the man wriggled his tongue against his pucker until he was gasping, his cock hard and leaking as he writhed against the bedspread. When Sherlock pulled back this time he hushed John’s protests and snatched up the oil on their table. John heard the oil spill onto Sherlock’s hands and worried about their lack of lubricant. They’d used up the last of it on intercrural sex and he was regretting it now since cooking oil was a poor substitute and John didn’t create his own natural lubricant like Sherlock did.

Sherlock’s first finger sank into John’s teased open body with ease, and he relaxed as he felt only the slight burn he’d felt last time a girlfriend had fingered him. Sherlock murmured his pleasure at John’s apparently noticeable easing and started to pump his finger. 

“Ready?”

“Hell yeah,” John growled, and then stiffened up as he felt a warble swell in his throat.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, just about to push a second finger in.

“Ahhh, nothing. Go ahead,” John replied.

“I can’t. You’ve clenched up completely.”

“Right. Sorry. Give me a tick.” 

John took a few deep breaths and managed to relax. Sherlock slipped two fingers inside and moved them slowly for a moment before spreading them. John hissed in discomfort but Sherlock kept going and he didn’t call a halt. Sherlock curled his fingers and John gasped, his hips bucking as pleasure coursed through him and sparks flashed behind his eyes.

Sherlock stilled.

“D-don’t stop,” John gasped… once he’d stopped singing, “ _Fuck_. Just… ignore that.”

“You were making a strange sound,” Sherlock stated, “I was unable to identify it in my known sounds-“

“Yeah, it’s called singing. Male vampire bats sing to… attract mates. Never mind just… keep going.”

Instead of obeying Sherlock leaned over and ran his tongue up John’s long, sensitive ear before whispering, “And here I thought that’s what you were doing when you brought me food. I’m yours, John. Sing to me.”

Sherlock sat back and began to finger John’s arse with enthusiasm while he let the soft crooning and warbling sounds rise up in his throat, groaning and pressing back against his hand. The third fingerburned, but he managed it and then Sherlock’s fingers pulled away. John keened, wanting to be filled again, and Sherlock was quick to press the head of his impressive member against his entrance. 

Sherlock was a cattle breed, and cattle breeds were _hung_ , so John was understandably nervous, but he was also unbelievably aroused and eager to be fucked by the man he loved. Sherlock was making anxious sounds, panting quite a bit as he pressed the tip of his thick, long member inside of John’s body. John knew he was literally dripping with lubricant, but that didn’t stop John from crying out as Sherlock tried to press in.

“Fuck! No! Stop!” John shouted.

Sherlock pulled back and grabbed the oil again, but John turned over in a hurry, shaking his head.

“No, sorry. Fuck! We need proper lube,” John groaned, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I did want that it’s just… _fuck_ that hurt.”

Sherlock looked utterly debauched, his long pink cock twitching amidst his nest of hair. John had noticed a few days ago that there was actually a small smattering of downy feathers down there, feathers that Sherlock was actually a bit embarrassed about but that John adored and couldn’t stop running his fingers through. They were drenched with oil right now, sticking up where the fur was plastered down. Sherlock looked agonized by his arousal and John felt like a right bastard for denying him. 

“I’m sorry,” John sighed.

“Can we do… something?!” Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

“Sure. Of course. Come here,” John urged. 

Sherlock tackled him, pressing him to the bed and frotting against John’s wilted cock. John hissed, not enjoying _that_ overmuch, but was soon hardening again as Sherlock’s mouth found his and ravaged him. John was shocked by his own taste in Sherlock’s mouth, the slightly oily residue still on his lover’s tongue and lips. He was moaning at the thought of John’s scent lingering on Sherlock’s breath for hours after their coupling and resolved to lap at Sherlock’s scent gland once he’d brought the man to a well deserved climax. How absolutely _filthy_ to think that close conversation would carry each other’s scent to whomever they were speaking to, making their relationship blatantly, even lewdly, obvious. 

Finally hard, John arched up into the slick mess of oil on Sherlock’s belly and moaned as their tongues danced together. Sherlock was thrusting his tongue in and out of John’s mouth in mimicry of what he’d rather be doing and John was hardly against it. Instead he made a show of wriggling submissively beneath Sherlock, one leg wrapped around his hip as he made exaggerated sounds of pleasure. 

Sherlock came first, he being far less experienced, and went lax with satisfaction while John continued to press up into him.

“You sexy beast,” John growled, “Wait till I get some lube or condoms. We’re going to spend our time between cases fucking like rabbits.”

Sherlock huffed in apparent amusement at the anecdote, but then turned his head and pressed a kiss to John’s jaw.

“Just so long as I don’t have to share you,” Sherlock whispered.

John grunted, to focused on chasing his release to reply.

“I mean it, John,” Sherlock sighed against his skin, “I’m a jealous man. I would sooner you interrupt a case or experiment than slake your considerable lusts elsewhere.”

Sherlock reached between them and grasped John’s erection, running his thumb across the head of his cock.

“Ohhhh, yes,” John moaned, “Mmm, like that.”

“I won’t share you,” Sherlock promised, his tone possessive. John was surprised at how hot it sounded like that, “I won’t have you fucking anyone else- like a rabbit _or_ a bat- behind my back. Now, John… _come for me_.”

The last words were spoken in his deep baritone, his mouth against the pulsepoint on John’s throat. It felt as if it reverberated through his blood and into all of his organs. His bollocks obeyed the command and John gasped as he came violently between their bodies. 

“Oh! Fuck! Sherl-“ John cried out, writhing as his body arched, “Love!”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, “Yes, that’s it. Love me.”

“I do,” John sighed, going limp on the bed, “Fuck me, but I do love you.”

“Good,” Sherlock growled, and gave him a final kiss before bounding out of the room so fast that John was left shivering in the cold left by his wake, calling for John over his shoulder, “I heard Lestrade’s text a moment ago! Let’s go, John! The game is on!”

XXX

For all the chaos that was going on there were still some things that were perfectly ordinary; like typical murder crime scenes. 

_Well,_ John thought as he watched Sherlock dart about the body and the room it was located in, _Ordinary for_ us _anyway._

Sherlock was trying to find the Enlightenati group within London as they’d managed to vanish, taking all the evidence of their existence with them the second Sherlock landed in England once again. Gone were their flags, symbols, websites; it all vanished so completely that Sherlock was now convinced the information John had gotten out of the cat-man in Russia was all a red herring. It made sense for an organization as huge and connected, as that one appeared to have thought ahead to what might happen if a member were captured and tortured. Since they were now looking for a needle in a haystack, Sherlock had requested to be allowed minimal access to every crime scene in London in the hopes he’d find a link to his group. People were so impressed with his intervention before Mycroft was returned that they were allowing it. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock groused, straightening up and brushing off his jacket, “We’re leaving, Gregson!”

Gregson waved a farewell and went back to his boring, typical murder while Sherlock stalked off. His text alert went off and he checked it.

“Lestrade has a robbery for us.”

“That’s not his division,” John replied in surprise.

“He’s covering for Atherford. She went into labour last night.”

“Ah. Have the kittens yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Why, what’s relevant about Atherford having kittens?”

“Nothing,” John snorted, “Just a boring old life event.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, hailing a cab. 

They were silent on the way over, their fingers rubbing together lazily in the car while Sherlock sat tucked against John’s side with one wing draped around him. They slipped out of the cab and headed for where Sally was aggressively pacing just on this side of the tape. She was one of the more ferocious predators there were, a dinosaur descendant. In a mostly Prey city there were always going to be a _few_ predators- mostly taking up aggressive positions like coppers where it was simply necessary to have one or two predators in case one had to subdue _another_ predator- however to find a _dinosaur_ predator in a prey city was unusual indeed. She made up for all the wary stares and unwelcome attitudes by being a cold bitch. 

“Freak,” Donovan sneered, her long raptor nails clicking on the sidewalk while her scaled skin made her look as impenetrable as she likely felt. I was an illusion. John had no doubt he or Sherlock could take her out, though the wounds they’d suffer would be more than a bit traumatic. 

“Donosaur,” Sherlock replied with a wide grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “Have you eaten your boyfriend yet.”

“I haven’t got a boyfriend,” Donovan snapped, “I don’t need a man.”

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock replied, “And Anderson isn’t in need of mint jelly, and yet he smells of it regularly. Either you’re into food play or he’s making a very convoluted attempt at suicide by luring in predators.”

Anderson was just walking out the door and gave Sherlock a repulsed look, “That’s a horrid thing to say about a sheep breed and you know it! Grow a sodding conscience!”

“Oh, I’ve one of those,” Sherlock replied, “Why do you think I keep trying to warn you off?”

“Says the man who lets _his_ boyfriend feed off of him!” Anderson snapped.

This was usually the point where Sherlock rolled his eyes and reminded them that John drank what he pumped and/or drew from a needle, and John stammered out that he wasn’t gay. Except that was no longer true and Sherlock being Sherlock saw no need to state something false if it wasn’t furthering his efforts to solve a case. So he just stood there and blinked at them while waiting for them to throw him what he deemed an _actual_ insult. It took them far longer than John thought it would to catch on, but once it did they gaped at him in horror.

“Does Lestrade know?” Anderson asked, coming forward and looking… _concerned?_

John was floored and more than a bit hurt. In the Yard predator and prey worked side by side, there wasn’t supposed to _be_ this sort of prejudice. Also John had always thought that the Yarders thought of him as one of them. They all went out for drinks regularly, and while John let the banter between Anderson, Donovan, and Sherlock go on unchecked, so did Lestrade. To see them both looking at him as if he were a _monster_ was a kick in the pants. Donovan at least should know better!

“I imagine he’ll put two and two together,” Sherlock replied, “If not, I’m sure you’ll inform him.”

Sherlock breezed past them and John ducked his head and followed, angrily staring ahead rather than meeting their accusing stares. John found Lestrade standing there taking notes and looking _very_ tired as he nodded his head while the owner of the Tesco- a goat-man with an impressive beard- ranted about ‘damn kids’ and the like. Sherlock started snooping about while John stood there listening to the man ramble. 

John narrowed his eyes. Something was off about Lestrade.

_Face pale. Eyes glazed. Significant and sudden weight loss. Dark circles under eyes. Face sweaty, but not his pits. Breathing shallow and…_

“Sherlock call an ambulance!” John shouted, and then ran forward in time to catch the man as he tipped to one side in a near faint.

Sherlock bolted around a newsstand with murder in his eyes only to slide to a halt and give them both a baffled look.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sherlock asked, dropping to one knee and pulling out his phone.

“Don’t,” Lestrade said weekly, grasping at Sherlock’s arm, “It’s just a damn stomach flu. I’m fine. Let me get some water and…”

“It’s not a stomach flu,” John replied, touching his nose and poking at his glands, “You’ve not got an infection or a virus. You’re dehydrated, malnourished…”

“Food’s tasted off,” Lestrade replied, shaking his head miserably, “It’s a stomach bug.”

“It’s not a damn bug! You need to be hospitalized. You need IV fluids at the very least, and-.”

Sherlock suddenly held up a hand, a worried look on his face, “Lestrade, you said food tastes off. What does it taste like?”

John gave Sherlock a baffled look.

“I dunno,” Lestrade shrugged, “Just tastes awful. I can’t stomach it unless I hold my nose and force it down.”

“Does it taste like _paper_ ,” Sherlock asked, his tone impatient.

“What is it with you and paper references lately?” John asked, “Far as I know there’s literally _no_ known illness that results in food tasting like _paper_ unless you mean…”

John halted, his eyes wide with alarm, and stared at where Lestrade was leaning weekly against the shop counter.

“It’s not quite paper,” Lestrade replied, too dazed to catch on that Sherlock and John had both come to the same conclusion, “It’s more like… leaves. Burned leaves. It’s bloody awful.”

“Oh gods,” John groaned, rubbing at his face, “Lestrade, you’ve been with someone lately. Romantically, I mean. Who? It’s important.”

“What? None your damn business,” Lestrade stammered, looking flustered.

“It is,” John replied, “Because you’re close to blacking out and we need to give the ambulance- _that Sherlock still has not called_ \- a name.” 

“No,” Lestrade snapped, “Why would you need to give them the name of some one night stand I had? I use protection and I can’t get pregnant even if I _did_ bottom, which I don’t.”

“You can’t _seriously_ be this thick?!” Sherlock groaned, dialing his phone and rattling off the address of the Tesco they were at, “Forty-three year old male presenting with Saint Guenole’s Disease*, suffering from dehydration, malnutrition, and a bloody broken heart.”

“What?” Lestrade laughed, “That’s not possible. I’ve been married and divorced, remember? I can’t have Love Bird Syndrome or whatever you call it. I’ve got my mum’s genes, not my father’s: I just _look_ like a grey fox. I’m a rabbit, through and through. Hell, John and I are distant cousins! I’ve been having one-offs since my divorce a year ago but this didn’t start until recently.”

“Listen,” John explained, “We’re not animals anymore, so it’s not as base as people believe. There’s no magic combination of smells or things that happen in bed that cause Saint Guenole’s Disease, it’s usually something subconscious. So think back. This person wouldn’t have _just_ been a one-off to you. You’d have noticed something about them that made you think marriage material, or cubs, or how you’d like to never leave their side.”

A tortured look crossed Lestrade’s face and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the counter, “It’s not possible. It’s not Saint Guenole’s.”

“It’s looking pretty clear that it is,” John soothed, taking his hand and squeezing it gently, “Come on. A name. Whoever it is needs to know.”

“I’ll not trap him like that. He’s made it clear it was a one time thing.”

“Greg, you’ll _die_ ,” John insisted, “Just a name. Maybe he’ll hear you’ve been going through this and realize he’s mad over you. You won’t know if you don’t try.”

Lestrade shook his head miserably, and when he opened his eyes they were more glazed than before.

“A name!” Sherlock shouted at him, still holding the phone near his ear, “Damn it, Greg! You’re going to end up in a damn grave! Just one bloody name!”

“Good to know you care,” Lestrade smiled miserably, and then went still as he lost his battle with consciousness.

John monitored his pulse until the ambulance arrived and then let them take over.

“Who do you think it is?” John asked.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, “They were locked up together, Mycroft’s been acting odd, and it fits the timeline. If it were someone before that Lestrade wouldn’t have survived this long.”

“Mycroft? Bloody hell, could he have made a less loving choice? They’ll get him sorted at the hospital,” John sighed, “If he’s not in too deep than antidepressants might help, and surely IV fluids will. We’ll be there to help him pull out of this.” __

Sherlock made an agreeable sound but his eyes were flashing murderously. When John turned back to suggest they follow Lestrade to the hospital the tall bovine was gone.

*The feet of a statue of Saint Guénolé, in a chapel at [ Prigny ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prigny) ( [ Loire-Atlantique ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loire-Atlantique) ), are pierced with needles by local girls who hope to find their [ soulmates ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soulmate) in this way.

[CHAPTER 6  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/169516.html)

[ http://www.ehow.com/video_5116637_sounds-do-bats-make_.html ](http://www.ehow.com/video_5116637_sounds-do-bats-make_.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 6

 

The reference in the previous chapter was “Wash” Washbourne, the pilot from Firefly/Serenity. 

Mycroft’s face was red with fury and humiliation. He’d _finally_ managed to convince someone to come to bed with him only to be laughed at when he took his clothes off. While he was shouting at the woman about her presumptions on gender and genitals his brother stormed into his bedroom.

“You pompous, arrogant, selfish, _cow_!” Sherlock started in, standing in the middle of his room and _fuming_ with outrage. 

“Get out!” Mycroft shouted at the surprised woman.

“Who’s he?” She asked.

“OUT!” Mycroft shouted at her, “And expect your proposal to be denied! I’ll not have a _bigot_ running one of my departments!”

“You can’t do that!” She shrieked back at him, her fur ruffling in outrage.

“Yes he can, now _get out_!” Sherlock shouted at her, “And take your ridiculous knock-off designer clothes with you! The mere _presence_ offends!”

Once the woman was well and gone Mycroft turned to his enraged brother, “And _why_ would you choose the word _cow_ and utter it to me as if it were an offense? Pun intended, of course.”

“Because you’re just like _her!_ ” Sherlock raved, “How could you _do_ that to someone else?! After what _she_ did to _us?!_ To _Mummy?!_ ”

“What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“Don’t pretend you don’t _know_!” Sherlock shouted, “It would be _highly_ uncharacteristic of you to not track Lestrade’s movements!”

“That’s what this is about? Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head at his brother while he slipped into his pants, “I assure you, he is not suffering after our encounter. I haven’t returned his calls in order to make sure he’s aware of our decided lack of a relationship; I do believe that is normal protocol. If he’s concerned about pregnancy do pass my negative results on to him. Good day, Sherlock.”

Mycroft, now wrapped in his favorite silk robe, turned to his bathroom with the intention of washing the woman’s stink off of him, when Sherlock snatched at his arm and gave him a narrow eyed stare.

“You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Mycroft asked, instantly _needing_ to know.

“You _haven’t_ been watching him,” Sherlock replied, looking dazed as he withdrew his hand and gave Mycroft the most confusing look he’d ever seen on his brother’s face. He looked hurt, sad, even a bit lost.

“Sherlock, what is going on? What’s happened to Gregory?” Mycroft asked, carefully keeping his emotions in check.

“You… he…” Sherlock stammered, and then quite suddenly clammed up, “If you aren’t going to take the time to find out properly than you don’t deserve to know. Shame on you.”

Sherlock lifted his chin in the air as if he’d accomplished a profound task and marched out of the room. Mycroft stared after him in confusion before snatching up his mobile.

“Anthea, get me all data on DI G. Lestrade for the last three days.”

XXX

Mycroft stormed the mental health ward where Lestrade was undergoing treatment for his ailment. The man had lost at least a stone, was lying still in a bed with an IV drip in his arm, and had been medicated to the point of slurred words. He stank, not just of unwashed fox, but he smelled of urine as well. He’d pissed his bed and he was just _lying_ in it without even bothering to alert the staff!

Mycroft had been intending on going in and comforting him. He’d planned on telling him they would start out as friends, date for a while, and that he thought they would be good together. He took one look- and whiff- of his former lover and saw himself with a lifetime of mentally ill, clingy, and _dependent_ man attached to his hip. He saw himself sharing a bed only with one person instead of experiencing the wealth of desires the world had to offer, of which he’d been denying _himself_ before his experience with Lestrade. Before his eyes flashed men, women, and everything in between. All the encounters that were now forbidden him because he’d thoughtlessly bedded someone who apparently was so fragile he couldn’t _live_ without chaining Mycroft to his side for all eternity! And he was _sitting in his own piss!_

Mycroft faltered. Lestrade opened his eyes weakly and slurred out an embarrassed greeting, at least having the grace to realize he wasn’t presenting himself well. Mycroft barely heard his words- something about not expecting anything from Mycroft. Mycroft slammed the potted plant he’d brought in as a gift down on his table.

“I realize this is a difficult time for you,” He stated, cutting off Lestrade’s barely understandable words, “And I don’t wish to make it more so. You have my full support during your recovery. Any bills your insurance does not covered you may forward to my office. Should you require services beyond what is covered, consider yourself able to take them without fear of financial strain. I wish you the best.”

Then he turned sharply and left the room, ignoring the smothered sob behind him as he all but fled the ward. 

XXX

John knew something was wrong. Sherlock was tucked against his side and all but clung to him. He’d come home from who-knows-where- certainly not the hospital where they wouldn’t allow visitors on the mental health ward- and threw himself into John’s arms. They’d made love slowly, and tenderly, Sherlock’s eyes wet with unshed tears as he came across John’s thighs with what sounded suspiciously like a sob. John did his best to comfort the man, but he had no idea what was wrong. After Sherlock fell into a listless melancholy on the couch John decided tea was in order. Perhaps even coffee. Certainly a wealth of chocolates to turn him sweet again. So John worriedly prepared both coffee and tea, a tray of biscuits, located a few chocolates from a Christmas gift box, and brought them all to his sighing lover. Pity the stores still didn’t have things that weren’t necessities, especially since John categorized chocolate as a necessity.

“Not hungry.”

“You’ll need the strength, Sherlock,” John argued.

“Your insistence that Love Bird Syndrome- or Saint Guenole’s disease- can be triggered by feelings of devotion or a longing to be monogamous with a person appears to be correct. I found several studies online verifying it, though not with a high degree of accuracy.”

“Well, there are a lot of factors to take in,” John replied, lifting Sherlock’s feet and sitting beneath them, “You have to remember there’s a lot of psychology at play and every person and secondary species is different. You want to tell me why you sound so depressed about that?”

“Mm.”

“So when did you first realize you needed me to live?” John guessed, rubbing Sherlock’s feet.

“The first time we spent time together at Angelo’s,” Sherlock replied.

“The first… the day we _met_?” John asked in surprise.

“The food,” Sherlock replied.

“You didn’t order any.”

“No, but I did sneak a bite of yours just because I wanted to see if you’d notice. You’re such a sloppy eater, never paying attention. Do you realize I’ve drugged you so many times I’ve lost count? You missed an entire Wednesday once and never noticed.”

“Sherlock, how would eating a bite of my food make you notice?” John wondered, “Unless… gods, did it start tasting bad _that day_? Why the hell didn’t you say anything! I’d have… I dunno, found a way around my confusion about my sexuality! I’ve had a damn crush on you for _ages!_ ”

“No, no, no,” Sherlock replied, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed in discomfort, “It _stopped_ tasting off.”

“Stopped?” John asked in confusion, “That means…. Oh my gods. I’m _not_ your first, am I? You’ve been with someone before.”

Sherlock sat up and tugged at his ears, sighing in frustration.

“I was in Uni. I’d broken off ties with my family because they were all like _Mycroft_ , always pushing their way into my business and driving me mad. A met a young man by the name of Victor Trevor. He was my first friend, John. I adored him and when he found out he told me he felt the same. He promised me the _world_ , John; a future with a loving family, a treasure trove of _freedom_.” 

Sherlock stood up and started pacing angrily, “I eventually came to my senses, but for quite some time he had me completely convinced that he loved me. I was planning our wedding, John. _I painted a nursery_ in his family home!”

“Oh my gods,” John replied, standing and grabbing at his arms as he passed, “Sherlock, look at me. Stop pacing.”

Sherlock stopped, but refused to meet John’s eyes.

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere. I know I’ve been saying I don’t want to get you pregnant, but that’s just _right now_. I do want kids with you. I want two, in fact. Maybe three. What do you want? Tell me. Let’s talk this out, yeah? I want total honesty, and I’ll be honest with you. You know you can tell when I’m not. Look at me? Am I lying? I may not have the breeding to get SGD but that doesn’t mean I can live without you, because I _can’t._ I don’t just want to, I _need_ to spend the rest of my life with you.”

John led Sherlock back to the couch and picked up a chocolate, “Here, how’s this taste?”

Sherlock chewed swallowed, and then stared miserably down at the tray, “Like Mycroft’s selfishness.”

XXX

When John saw Sherlock next he was sitting in the living room completely engrossed in a game of Operation with Mycroft. They both seemed to be taking it rather seriously so John did his best not to laugh. Instead he offered Mycroft tea since Sherlock hadn’t done so as usual.

“No thank you, John,” Mycroft replied, his concentration on the game, “I’m not staying long.”

“Correction: you _weren’t_ staying long,” Sherlock replied, “It’s been an hour.”

“It has? Damn!” Mycroft swore, dropping the heart he’d been attempting to pick up after the buzzer went off.

“Can’t handle a broken heart, how telling,” Sherlock taunted.

“Don’t be banal.”

“Hm, ironic would perhaps be a better word,” Sherlock replied softly. 

“That would imply something entirely different,” Mycroft scoffed, “And impossible.”

“Not impossible, nothings impossible. Highly improbable, perhaps, but then you’ve always told me that once we’ve eliminated the impossible whatever remains- no matter how improbable- must be true.”

“I know what I _said_ Sherlock. I’m the one who said it. What are you going on about irony for?”

“Nothing you would _care_ about,” Sherlock replied, sitting back, “Let’s play a different game. Let’s play deductions.”

“Why _are_ we playing games, Sherlock?” Mycroft scolded lightly while the consulting detective stood up and started rooting through a box, “You’re _supposed_ to be catching us a bomber.”

“Come now, Mycroft, don’t be dull.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together eagerly, but Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I always win,” Mycroft sighed in disgust as Sherlock tossed a hat at him.

“That’s why you can’t resist.”

“Owner male duck with OCD, highly intelligent, oral fixation, right-handed, heterosexual.”

“And lonely.”

“Why lonely?”

“You missed that, I wonder why?”

“ _Why_ lonely, Sherlock?”

“There are no other feathers, hairs, or scales on that hat. That breed of duck- based on the feathers- is a born rapist, so there would be _evidence_ of his conquests on such a beloved item. He’s not able to maintain a partner due to his violent tendencies in bed, thus he is lonely.”

“Not so beloved, he left it behind,” Mycroft replied dismissively, “And even if you _are_ correct about him being single who’s to say it’s not a choice? Many ducks choose not to mate due to their ‘violent tendencies’ landing them in _jail_. Some would _rather_ be alone.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Sherlock asked, his tone disgusted, “That you’d _rather_ be alone?”

“I… I’m not _lonely_ Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, shocked to the point.

“How would you know?” Sherlock growled angrily.

“Do you have any idea what it’s _like_ being me?” Mycroft asked, laughing at the ridiculousness of this conversation, “Do you recall meeting other children when we were young? How _stupid_ they were? How _dull_?” 

“Not all…”

“If _you_ found them dull just _imagine_ how I feel!” Mycroft gestured to the windows in frustration, “I’m surrounded by _goldfish_!”

“Yet a fox had _some_ appeal to you,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Change the subject. Now,” Mycroft snapped. 

“Fine. That hat belonged to your bomber.”

Mycroft went completely still, “This hat?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock smirked, “You think you’re so much smarter than I am? Figure it out.”  
  
[CHAPTER 7](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/169373.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 7

 

The drake walked with a confident swagger, his tail poking out between the coat tails of his suit jacket. You’d never know that MI6 had just swarmed his high street London flat and confiscated everything he owned except for the clothes on his back. He pushed through the swinging door and entered the back of the restaurant where a chef was standing over a pot of vegetable stew.

“Hey there, handsome,” The mallard cooed.

“Moran. I’m working.”

“Yeah, and it’s sexy as fuck when you do.”

“I’ve told you not to flirt with me. Many times.”

“We could be so good together.”

“ _Only_ if you achieve your objective.”

“I have. MI6 has just raided my flat. I am destitute and completely at your mercy.”

The man smirked as he sipped the stew, “Very well. Your reward will be yours. Tonight after the restaurant closes. I will play the hapless victim in the alley outside here and you may take my body as violently as you like. Be sure to gag me, because I _will_ play my part well.”

“You won’t regret this,” The drake trembled with longing, “I’ll make it _so good_. You’ll find you like it in the end.”

“Just be sure you get what you like. You get one shot with me. You won’t be able to afford the price for a second round with me. No one ever has.”

“Maybe you’ll be the one asking me for more.”

“Unlikely. Now go. I’m busy.”

Moran was halfway to the door when the man called out again, “Oh, and Sebby? Just remember, you _only_ get my body.”

“What does that mean?” He asked in confusion.

“My mind is mine. You won’t be touching it with so much as a feather tip. Don’t even expect to get a glimpse of my heart. I had it removed.”

XXX

Mycroft’s office was a _mess_. He was sure that the paperwork he had for the disaster in London three weeks ago was more than the paperwork he’d seen throughout the previous part of his career. To top it all off they were _still_ no closer to finding the source of the bombing that half his household and office staff had been killed in. While most people bemoaned the ability to find reliable help, Mycroft needed more than _reliable_ staff. He required staff that were capable of defending him if there was an attack, that were trustworthy, that he could give at least a level 2 clearance to with a clear conscience!

Thus he was holding interviews _while_ doing paperwork. Anthea had cleared the applicants first, putting them through rigorous background checks and checking their qualifications, and was sending them in one at a time. He’d found a cook in a former military woman who had actually enjoyed her time in the mess and taken a few culinary courses since retiring, a housekeeper in a nurse with a blackbelt who had been raised military but never gone into it himself (he was a stretch, but he’d do) and now was interviewing for butlers. 

“There’s only one applicant,” Anthea informed him, her eyes never leaving her phone, “It’s a difficult position to fill, especially after Jared was working his magic for so many years. If this fellow won’t do we might have to lower our standards.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft scoffed, “There’s an entire _world_ out there, and the right person will come along even if I have to ship him or her in from another country! Preferably one we’re _not_ at war with. Send him in.”

Anthea left without a word and the person who entered did so in the same fashion, simply standing in front of his desk and waiting while Mycroft finished filling out the form he was working on. So far the person seemed suitable just based on that behavior alone. Mycroft lifted his head, taking in a breath to begin the interview, and simply froze with a shocked look on his face. 

Gregory Lestrade stood before him in a well pressed, if not well fitted, tux. Over his arm was a towel and balanced in the other hand was a tea service.

“Anthea mentioned that you hadn’t had tea yet. I thought I’d just get started on my duties rather than waste both our time on an interview when you’ll be giving me the position.”

“And _what_ pray tell, would make me do that?!” Mycroft blustered.

Lestrade slid the tray onto the desk without so much as a clatter, “First off, I’m the only applicant. Second of all I meet all your qualifications: leadership experience, skill with a handgun, ability to maintain secrecy, past in military or police force, experience maintaining a home, knowledge of etiquette; my table training is from my French grandmother, but I think you’ll find it’s superb. Third… we both know you feel awful about leaving me in the state I was in. Sherlock’s been downright _apologetic_ about it, which means he’s not taking your side, which means you’re _both_ aware that you’re being a right prat. I’m fine with that, though. You don’t want to be tied down and I’m not going to do that to you. Instead I’m going to work for you. I’ll be near you, taking care of you, and that’s enough for me.” 

Lestrade poured the tea exactly as Mycroft usually took it, taking care not to spill a drop, and placed the saucer and cup in front of him. He then placed a small plate to one side with a thin slice of cake on it and a small desert fork. Mycroft didn’t touch it.

“You have a job. A lucrative one that…”

“They retired me early due to the SGD. It’s an instant fail on the yearly physical. I’ve got my pension and lots of free time.”

“Sadly,” Mycroft replied, keeping his tone neutral, “The SGD is also an instant fail for-“

“-For someone on your staff _in the office_ _or field_ it’s an instant fail. I read the handbook. For inside the household I only need to be medicated, which I am. Here’s a note from my doctor.”

Lestrade dropped the note down on the table and gave Mycroft a slight bow.

“I’ll be sorting the household and getting acquainted with things if you need me for anything, sir. My beeper number is 5623. Good day, sir.”

Lestrade gave him a polite bow and then left with the tray and his dignity firmly in place while Mycroft sat at his desk and felt like an arse. He glanced at the note from the doctor and winced at the high level of anti-depressants mixed with anti-anxiety medications. No mood stabilizers. They weren’t needed. He only had one mood: suicidal. And Mycroft would be arming him. And he saw little way out if he didn’t want to throw the man over the edge. 

XXX VIOLENT SEX SIMULATING RAPE XXX skip to END SCENE to avoid being traumatized

Sebastian slipped into the alley, hiding in the shadows, and waited for the attractive man to pass, his slim form a symbol of everything he had ever wanted. Hips swayed to some 70’s disco song blaring in his earbuds, effectively keeping him unaware of his surroundings. He was duckbait. 

Sebastian slipped his jacket off and undid the front of his trousers, opening the button on his pants. He slipped silently along behind the slutty little bitch as he undid his tie. He gripped it tightly in both hands and used his light weight to his advantage. He may not have been born with wings, but his hollow bones were so light that he could nearly fly as he ran. They were also a weakness, and he had to make sure his victim wouldn’t struggle, which would be difficult since he’d basically _promised_ he’d struggle. 

Sebastian swooped in and wrapped the tie around his neck, cutting off his airflow. His victim struggled, then went for a weapon. Seb had expected it. He knocked it aside with a quick kick, ignoring the snap of the man’s wrist. He let out a strangled sound and went down to his knees. His other hand went for another weapon, but with his score on the ground it was even easier to kick the tazer aside. 

“Stupid whore,” Sebastian growled, “You thought I’d just fuck you and walk away? You’re going to feel this tomorrow. You’re going to know exactly how deep my cock went into your body and you’re going to wish you’d been conscious to feel it when it rubbed your prostate until you came in your trousers.”

The vic slipped into unconsciousness and that perfect feeling of power flew through his body like the wind in his feathers. Speaking of feathers he could already feel his cock sliding through them in response to the limp form on the ground before him. He slipped the tie free and checked his breathing before tying his hands behind his back. He adjusted his body until his hips were propped over a coffee can from a nearby bin. It stank of coffee and bacon. The filth was perfect. He took some of the nasty grounds from the bin and rubbed them on the prat’s face for good measure, cackling as he did so. Then he knelt over him and pulled his trousers down, but left the pants as they were. He needed a bit of resistance. Duck cunts would fight back, and he would wager money that the little slut had lubricated and stretched himself. He needed to fuck the man _hard_.

Seb leaned over him, lining the tip of his cock up, and waited for the urge to hit as he rubbed up and down his crack. Fire tingled through his body, riding up into the testicles buried inside his body. His cock tensed and then exploded outward, a long muscled spiral that would seek out any opening and bury itself inside. It tore through the silky boxers, sought out his pucker, and forced it’s way inside, squirming and curling as his cock took on it’s natural clockwise corkscrew shape. It pressed deep into his bowls and Seb gasped as it turned the bend and buried itself inside of him completely. It had been ages since he’d felt this, and the bastard _hadn’t_ lubed or stretched. It was so glorious he just knelt there, draped over his body, panting for a moment as he fought his body’s natural urge to come instantly and flee before his ‘mate’ could turn around and beat him senseless for raping him. 

Once he’d stopped himself from being a minute man he began to flex his muscles, his cock twirling as it pulled in and out of his body while his hips only minutely flexed. He had to stop himself from crying out at the sheer bliss of touching another human being, even if he _couldn’t_ identify the fucker’s secondary species. The idea that he just _might_ be the sort who could get pregnant as a man. The idea of that slim body round with his eggs… he’d stalk him if he had to in order to see them lain and hatched. 

That thought set his hips moving faster and his cock ravaging the man’s insides. He’d be so pretty and plump, and he’d have no choice but to keep Seb around to care for his young. He’d be sweet and clingy from the hormones and Seb would take every opportunity to mount him again and again…

The slim form beneath him woke up, and Seb had to slam his hand over his mouth as he began to thrash and scream, tears running down his cheeks from the pain. 

“Shhh,” Seb purred, “Little slut. You’re so tight around my dick. Yeah, take it. Mph.”

The struggling was doing it for him even more, and he felt himself come hard inside of his conquest. His cock shrank down, but the struggling and attempts to scream and set him off so he swelled again. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have struggled,” Seb gasped, “I’m usually a oneshot kinda guy but… fuck your arse is perfect!”

He renewed his efforts, listening to the sobbing beneath him as the mans struggles slowly weakened until he was just lying still and crying weakly. Seb leaned forward and licked his tears off of his face, dipping down to sample the snot running from his nose, and then holding his mouth open with his fingers despite the pain of attempted biting so he could slip his tongue in his mouth and gag him with his tongue. He tried to retch and Seb pulled back, laughing as his tail wiggled eagerly. 

“I’m close. It’s your turn now.”

Seb flexed his muscles and the muffled cries beneath him changed. He watched the man’s eye widen in shock and then roll back in his head. Then he was coming hard in his trousers, cock completely untouched, his muscles clenching around Seb’s prick until he came with a low groan. This orgasm was drawn out and absolutely _perfect_ , his cock throbbing as it emptied deep into the little sluts body. When his cock had shriveled back inside of his body he pulled away with a soft sigh. 

“You were great. Thanks for that,” Seb grinned, and then pulled the slip on the tie to unravel it. 

Seb looped his tie around his neck and did up his trousers, leaving the man shaking on the ground as he walked away. He scooped up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder, whistling as he exited the alley with a spring in his step. All this because he’d left a hat at the bombsite and let his stuff be confiscated when ordered. He had to admit… it was worth it.

END SCENE

“Good news!” John called as he stepped into their flat, “Two bits of good news, actually.”

“Hm, three. A trifecta of good news,” Sherlock replied, not lifting his eyes from his microscope.

“Oh? Have you deduced something about that mold?”

Sherlock slipped his hand in his dressing gown pocket, then decided to ask questions to stall for time as he tried to make up his mind. On one hand, John _needed_ sex. It was his breed. On the other hand, Sherlock truly wanted to top and what he had in his pocket would put a hold on that. Possibly for a long time if John’s anxiety got in the way and the condoms kept rolling in. He’d never had a chance to top Victor and hadn’t been with anyone since so he was more than eager. 

“What was your good news?”

“I got my hands on some lube finally!” John announced, holding three tubes up with an eager grin, “Oh, and Greg says he has a new job and is feeling pretty positive about it. What was your news, then?”

Sherlock turned in his stool, thought it over again while fingering the small box in his pocket. Three condoms. He’d paid an exorbitant price for them, especially since he needed the largest size. He’d seen John in the store buying the lube, but he’d walked right past the condoms without even glancing at them and Sherlock had felt betrayed. Instead of calling out that he was in the same store he’d bought them and made sure to beat John home. 

“I’m finished my experiment on the Carter case. It’s all done and over with. I’m all yours,” Sherlock smirked, standing and striding towards John with a sultry swagger. 

John all but tackled him, dragging him into the bedroom with a wild look in his eyes. Sherlock palmed his erection through his jeans and John’s legs nearly buckled.

“Sherlock,” John moaned, “Please. It’s been days. I’m so fucking _hard_.”

“You rabbits and your sex drives,” Sherlock teased. 

“You cows and your… somethings…” John rambled.

Sherlock chuckled as he leaned down and captured John’s lips hungrily, they snogged eagerly for a moment before Sherlock climbed off and began to slowly strip his clothes of, hips swaying seductively.

“Oh, you bad, bad man,” John purred, unhooking his own clothes.

“Leave the rings in. I love them. It’s like you’re a biker.”

“Oh, like that, do you? Maybe I should get some leather trousers and put on my army boots for you,” John clipped the rings shut after threading his trousers out of both sides and did the same for his shirt. Sherlock stripped the collar of the shirt over his head and tugged his pants off with an eager grin.

“So where is it best to bite me, hm?”

“Sherlock,” John groaned, gripping his cock to calm himself, “Seriously. Don’t drive me wild. I’m on the fucking edge.”

“I can tell. Look at those fangs. Did you even will them out? Or are they sneaking on you?”

“Ssssneaking,” John replied, his ‘S’ drawing out due to his fangs emerging. 

“Cute,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Your thigh,” John replied, hips rolling up to meet Sherlock’s, “I just need to avoid the femoral artery. It’s the easiest spot, with less margin for error.”

Sherlock climbed off of John, shifted a wing, and tossed himself down on his belly on the bed. John rolled onto his side to stare at his plush arse, one cheek black and one white. He grinned and spread his arsecheeks to lap at the slick fluid that flowed from his opening as arousal coursed through his body. 

“No need for lube there,” Sherlock teased with a needy roll of his hips.

“Very funny,” John replied, giving his bum a light slap, “I’m not getting you up the duff. Roll over.”

Sherlock complied, leaving John to slide down his body with a lurid grin.

“Let me know if you want me to stop, but _please_ don’t stop me,” John murmured against his thigh.

“Just… don’t miss.”

“Couldn’t if I tried. I can ssssee your veins, Sherlock. They’re beautiful. Like a roadmap. They’re damaged in your arms and between your toes. Pleassse don’t ever do that again.”

“Oh. Okay,” Sherlock replied, caught off guard. 

He glanced down at his lover and saw him looking at him with an almost reverent look in his eyes. His upturned nose sniffed along Sherlock’s thighs, raising gooseflesh along his body. He felt the usual pull of his instincts: _escape!_ He ignored them. John’s teeth grazed his leg and he was grateful for the firm hands pinning it down as he shivered and then jerked his leg involuntarily. John’s teeth were so thin that they slid into his flesh with only a hint of pain. Then they slid back out with a release of pressure. Sherlock felt the warmth around he tiny wounds first as his blood washed out and then John was moaning as he suckled on the thigh and swallowed over and over again. John’s hand slid up and stroked Sherlock’s cock in time to the pulls he made against his thigh and Sherlock felt his head begin to spin as his body tried to decide where to send the blood. 

“Oh gods, John. Get me off fast,” Sherlock panted.

John groaned, and began to move his hand faster, but he also began to suck faster and Sherlock was sure the area around the bite would have a purple bruise beneath the white fur. His breath sped up as his orgasm chased after him, but he was tumbling towards light-headedness for a completely different reason. 

“J-John,” Sherlock gasped, feeling himself on the cusp of an orgasm. 

And then his cock wilted. 

John didn’t notice at first. He was too busy slurping down, and then he was lapping at the wound to encourage healing with his coagulant encouraging saliva. When he lifted his head he all but charged Sherlock’s lips, latching on and kissing him soundly. Sherlock could taste his blood on John’s lips, coppery and wet, and he whimpered at the raw carnality of his lover consuming him in all ways. John’s lips left his and he started his journey down Sherlock’s chest, gulping down the six ounces of milk each teat held for him, while his fingers worked his ass open. Sherlock shivered as his desire mounted again. Each nipple was so sensitive that John’s suckling bordered on pleasure and pain. Yet his body wasn’t recovered enough to provide him with that _one_ outlet he needed. He was aching for release but unable to achieve it and the frustration was mounting, as the pressure on his teats eased but his overwhelming need was unfulfilled. He pulled at John’s hair, scratched at his shoulders and wings, snarled in frustration and writhed in outraged lust. 

When John got down to Sherlock’s cock he mewled and lapped at it hungrily.

“Sherlock?” He asked, his glazed eyes blinking up at him, “Wanna ride you. Want you inside me.”

“Yes. Fuck!” Sherlock growled reaching down and fisting his limp member in frustration, “It’s not _working_!”

Sherlock tugged at his hair angrily and John groaned and shifted up to straddle him, trying to get his half-hard cock into his body while his own erection strained and leaked. Sherlock snarled and rolled over, lifting his arse into the air in plaintive offering. John’s thighs shifted down and Sherlock’s cheeks were pried apart. Sherlock hadn’t been stretched as John had, but his opening was wet and eager for him. John’s cockhead pushed hard against Sherlock’s entrance and he pressed back just as frantically. He knew he needed John inside him, up against his prostate, to bring him off. Otherwise his erection didn’t stand a chance of reoccurring despite the fact he could feel his bollocks drawn up tight against his body. 

Sherlock grunted as John’s cockhead breeched the first ring of muscle, and they both sighed as he slowly sank the rest of the way in. They stilled a moment, pressing tightly together. John’s breath was hot on Sherlock’s neck, sending shivers down his body as the thin fur on the back of his neck was stirred up. 

“So wet,” John panted, “So tight. Mine?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, “Only yours.”

Sherlock lifted his hips and John took up a fast and brutal pace, fucking Sherlock’s face and shoulder’s into the mattress, slamming the headboard against the wall until the plaster cracked. He moaned low, growling over his mate, and gripping his hips tightly.

“Mine,” John moaned, “My mate.”

Sherlock all but cheered as the strokes against his prostate brought his erection back, and he gripped it and stroked it greedily. He wasn’t about to hold off, not now that he was riding the edge once again. He tossed off until he roared with the joy of his release, his cock spurting onto his nipples, stomach, and the bedsheets below him. He went limp after that, content to let John use him fast and hard. It was a few more thrusts before logic kicked back in to his blessed out mind and he realized where their tryst was headed.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “Pull out.”

“Nnngnn,” John groaned.

“John! Pull out! I’ll suck you off, I swear just…”

“Close! Please! Sherlock! Fuck!”

Sherlock groaned and buried his face in the duvet again. John sounded so _frantic_ and needy, and that was just how he loved him. It almost made him hard again. Yet the reason he didn’t buck him off was because he wanted so desperately to please John in all ways, and both rabbits and bats weren’t the monogamous sort. By all accounts a sex crazed creature like John should have a harem, not a single moody lover who preferred to abstain during cases. If he wanted him to stay…

_No. Pregnancy to make him stay? Haven’t you already tried that and found your method flawed?_

Sherlock pushed up on his hands and shoved backwards, intending to dislodge John, but the bats wings flew around him and two clawed hands wrapped around his throat. Sherlock gasped as the grip tightened almost threateningly.

“You saidyou were _mine!_ ” John snarled, grinding his hips into Sherlock’s body until he saw spots behind his eyes.

“Yes!” Sherlock choked out, and a dry orgasm rolled through his body leaving him gasping and clenching at John’s cock inside of him. 

When the sparks behind his eyes cleared and sound returned to his ears he felt John pulsing inside of him, groaning softly as he came deep inside Sherlock’s body. And then passed out. His physiology really was astounding all things considered.

“Rabbits,” Sherlock sighed and waited for him to stir awake again. 

“Fuck. I pass out?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Sorry, I did mention that happens some times and… Fuck.”

“M-hm,” Sherlock sighed, “I _did_ try to stop you, but you were… most compelling.”

Sherlock let his voice fall sensual to tell John that he wasn’t upset about the insistent coupling.

“And if we can’t even get a hold of condoms how will we get a morning after pill?” John groaned.

“I won’t take one,” Sherlock replied, slipping out from under his lover as he slid free, “If I’m pregnant I’m staying that way.”

“It’s not actually abortion, you know,” John started, but Sherlock cut him off with a forceful slash of his hand to the air between them. He headed for the shower with a slight limp and a satisfied smile. 

Sherlock spent his shower ruminating on how fantastic having John bugger him had been and wondering when he’d get to fuck him as well. 

_Clearly not after he’s bitten me. It seems to have a bad effect on my ability to maintain an erection._

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and headed into the living room humming happily. He loved that he could walk about naked to dry now that they were together. He tugged the towel off of his head and met John’s furious eyes. He was shaking with anger and… wearing Sherlock’s robe. Sherlock’s robe that had a box of condoms in the pocket that they could have _used_ half an hour ago. A box that John shoved in his face and waved about angrily.

“What the actual _fuck,_ Sherlock?”  

  


[CHAPTER 8](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/172759.html)

A/N: Here is a link that explains (sort of) why John passed out. It’s a rabbit trait rather than a bat trait. [http://www.smallanimalchannel.com/rabbits/rabbit-behavior/hormonal-behaviors.aspx](http://www.smallanimalchannel.com/rabbits/rabbit-behavior/hormonal-behaviors.aspx)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 8

 

“I can explain,” Sherlock replied.

“Can you?” John asked, “Because this sure as hell looks like you’re _trying_ to get pregnant! Now, I _do_ want to have kids or calves or whatever with you someday Sherlock, but _now?”_ __

“That isn’t what… You didn’t see the condoms. Didn’t even look.”

“You _saw_ me shopping? Or you deduced?”

“I saw you and you _walked right by them_.”

“So you bought them and then didn’t mention it?”

“I wanted to top!” Sherlock snapped, stomping his foot angrily, “You clearly wanted me to do so as well! I was angry because you didn’t bother to even _look_ for them!”

“Why?! You just said you wanted to top!”

“I did, but… I also want to bottom,” Sherlock replied with a frustrated sound, “My body _craves_ to be filled, John! _Why_ didn’t _you_ buy them?”

“I didn’t see them!” John snapped.

“Yes you did! You just passed them anyway! John, something in _you_ either wants to bottom exclusively- which you’ve just disproved- or…” Sherlock left it hanging and John stared at him in frustration for a moment before connecting the dots.

“No. No, Sherlock, I do _not_ want to get you pregnant.”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock asked, “It’s every rabbit’s primary objective. Then there’s my breeding. Any child we have together would be most likely to be an Omnivore, regardless of if the bat genes came out dominant. Then we have your childhood…”

“DON’T!” John shouted, and Sherlock froze in alarm, “Don’t go there, Sherlock. Don’t you _dare_ go there. Whatever you’ve deduced about my childhood, wherever you’ve got it stashed in your mind palace, _nail the door shut._ You want to break us, that’s the one way it will happen!”

Sherlock stared at John in shock. He knew his lover’s childhood had been hard on him- a blood-only predator raised with herbivores- but he’d had no idea how much it had hurt him. John stood with his body turned to one side, ready to run or fight, his eyes damp with unshed tears. What had happened? It took him a moment to see it and then… _oh_. They’d not fed him their blood as he’d thought. It hadn’t been the arrangement John had with Sherlock. Nothing even close. They hadn’t even gotten him shipments of blood. They’d denied him to the point of pureeing vegetables and _forcing_ them down his throat. It probably just barely kept him alive. It would have given him a full, but sick feeling in his gut. He’d have had to have supplements, most likely liquid vitamins. He’d have been weak. A Predator in a school full of Prey, he’d have been bullied. Yet he’d stayed in a Prey city. He claimed to love London. Why? It wasn’t where he was raised, but it was still a _prey_ city. Or was it just that it was all he knew?

Sherlock’s internal debate was halted by a look of realization crossing John’s face. He saw that Sherlock had figured it out and without a word he turned and stormed up to his old room. Sherlock followed him, watching from the doorway as he stuffed himself into whatever articles of clothes he could find.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Are you coming back?” Sherlock hadn’t _meant_ to sound terrified, but the thought of going through the agony he’d suffered when Victor had betrayed him.

John stilled, hand on his collar, “Sherlock, I’m not leaving you. I’m just… I need to get some air. I know you’re not Mr. Social Undertones, but you’ve touched a nerve. Just… let me walk it off.”

Sherlock nodded and let John pass, anxiety whelling up in him. He spent the time John was gone pacing the sitting room. It got under his skin; the idea that he was dependent on someone elses affections for both happiness and life. Just the thought of John leaving him… He was in too deep. He had to make this right, but he had no idea how. 

Lestrade. Lestrade would help him.

XXX

Greg had the household running as smooth as butter. The maids took time to warm up to him, but eventually they were bustling around him like cogs in a well-oiled machine. Mycroft kept _trying_ to bring home dates, and at first Greg had a few ideas of what to do with them, but then he’d realized if he just waited Mycroft would destroy the situation himself. The first was absolutely catastrophic and Greg had been forced to toss him out when he’d heard gunfire in the master suite. He’d found Mycroft crouched at the foot of the bed shooting blindly at the man. A mask was attached to his face with a padlock trapping it beneath his jaw. When Lestrade rescued him, removing the mask had been rather tricky, he told Greg the bastard had refused to acknowledge his stop signal. Mycroft had escaped the ropes and armed himself, but been unable to convince the man to give him the key so he’d started firing. The wall and headrest had taken the brunt of his abuse so Greg had threatened the man and tossed him out once Mycroft had stated he wouldn’t press charges. The next two he’d simply been paged to remove. One had been sour about it, but another had been laughing and that had made him _angry_. Because Mycroft was something special and none of them seemed able to see it. Even the ones who made it the entire night weren’t good enough to stay with him, and Greg ended up showing them the door the next morning, sometimes in tears when Mycroft had to give them the boot with his sharp tongue. 

Greg’s mobile went off and he checked it to find Sherlock’s smug face staring back at him. He sighed and rolled his eyes before answering it.

“Yeah?”

“John’s upset with me. What do I do to make him happy?”

“Tried sex?”

“That’s what the fight was about.”

“Oh. Um… give in?”

“I had. He’s unsure what he wants and is frustrated. It turned to a discussion of his childhood and apparently that’s a problem for him.”

Greg rubbed his hand over his eyes. Between both Holmes men he was getting to be seriously sleep deprived.

“Okay. So do you know what his favourite things are? Foods, drinks, the like?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, his tone disgusted.

“Buy them.”

“Half of them aren’t available!”

“Get what you can and find suitable substitutes for the rest. Light candles. Play romantic music or his favourite song or _your_ song if you have one.”

“He hasn’t got a favourite song, and why would John want to hear Sonata on…”

“Not _your_ favourite song, jackass. _Your_ _song_. As in whatever song you two have connected to each other as a couple. First you danced to or something.”

Sherlock was silent for so long that Greg checked his phone to see if he’d hung up. He was still there.

“Look, how pissed is he?” Greg asked.

“He’s walking it off. He said that the topic of his childhood is the one thing that will make him leave me.”

Greg closed his eyes, letting the pain he constantly felt wash over him for a moment. He could hear it echoed in Sherlock’s voice. To rely on someone for life… _wait_.

 “Wait,” Greg spat out, “Wait just a _god damn_ minute. John relies on you for _food_.”

“Yes.”

“You rely on him for happiness.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his tone angry this time.

“So you’re even. I mean, John could replace you but he’d be seriously put out. He’d lose more than just his food source, he’d lose comfort, security, his home, his lover, his _food_.”

“And?” Sherlock asked, “All of those things are replaceable to someone who doesn’t have what _we_ have.”

“Yes, but not easily. He’s not just going to leave because you fucked up a conversation, Sherlock. Especially not if you show him you’re sorry.”

“So? How do I show him how sorry I am?”

“Start by telling him,” Lestrade replied, “Text him. Now.”

Silence for a moment, “Okay. Done. Now what?”

“Do what I said before. Buy him nice things. Show him you care. Show him you cherish him.”

“What if I come off too clingy like Molly?”

Greg thought on that. It was entirely possible that John would be repelled, “Fuck if I know.”

“What? You’re supposed to be an expert at this!”

“Are you daft? I’m a divorcee whose devoted himself to house managing for the love of my life since he won’t let me be with him.”

“Exactly. You kept that first relationship dragging out for _years_ and now you’ve managed to keep Mycroft in your life. You’re surviving. I saw you eating and enjoying food the other day, you’re actually _successful_.”

“Yeah, but I’m miserable as hell.”

“No you’re not,” Sherlock scoffed, “You’re eating and…”

“I’m _making due_. Sherlock I drag his boy toys out of his bedroom every morning.”

Silence. 

“I didn’t need that image,” Sherlock sighed. 

“Neither did I, but I get a full visual _regularly_.”

“What the _hell_ is he thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied miserably, “I can give him so much more than they do. I would be so damn good to him and… you don’t need to hear this.”

“It’s very uncomfortable being faced with my potential agony, yes.”

“Then don’t end up here, Sherlock. I’m serious. This is worse than being shot, worse than starving, worse than dying. I’m just hanging on hoping for scraps of attention when I bring him a particularly good cup of tea. It’s pathetic and I wish I could off myself but some damn part of me wants to be with him still. Just… don’t lose John.”

“I don’t intend to,” Sherlock replied, and this time he _did_ end the call.

XXX

**You don’t deserve him. - SH** ****

Mycroft’s phone went off, but when he checked it he saw it was just Sherlock’s usual text. He’d been sending it so often that Mycroft felt he could easily determine Sherlock’s exact schedule for the last week. Mycroft sighed and paged Gregory. The man walked in with his head held high and his gorgeous fox tail swaying behind him. As always Mycroft felt a surge of longing, but he pushed it down. He _knew_ he was being selfish and cruel, but he had buried himself for so long that he was loath to give up his freedom to settle down for the rest of his life with one person. He kept telling himself that he would end his playboy behavior and marry Gregory _tomorrow_. Then tomorrow came and went and he was still holding tightly to his bachelor hood. A side of him that he was ashamed of kept whispering that marriage could wait; Gregory would literally _always_ wait for him and it wasn’t fair for him to be forced into a lifelong commitment due to what should have been a oneoff. 

“You rang, sir?” Lestrade asked, his voice professional while his eyebrow raised invitingly.

“I’m looking for a file,” Mycroft stated plainly, “It was in my safe.”

“Okay, which safe?” Gregory asked readily.

“One you don’t know about.”

“Oh… okay,” Gregory blinked, “So… you want me to turn around or something?”

“No. It’s not behind me.”

“Oh… well that _would_ be a bit cliché,” Gregory replied, smirking at the picture of the Queen behind his home office desk.

“Quite.”

“So… what can I do for you, Sir?” Greg asked, looking less sure of himself.

Mycroft sighed. Why _did_ Sherlock think they should be together? Gregory was clearly a moron.

“The file _was_ in my safe, Gregory. _Was_. As in it is _no longer there._ In the safe that only _I_ know about and only _I_ have the combination to.”

“Okay, so we need to call the police.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“MI6?” He tried again.

Mycroft raised the other.

“The Queen?”

Mycroft scoffed and stood up, pacing to his window and staring out at the quiet street outside of his fine townhouse. 

“Okay, I give. I’m an idiot. I don’t deserve to lick your boots,” Gregory sighed in disgust, “Please share your wisdom with me O’ great and powerful Holmes.”

“You’re a former detective, Gregory. Start detecting.”

“Don’t you usually have Sherlock do these things?” Gregory asked, “I know _I_ usually do.”

“No. I want you on it. Sherlock is busy searching for the bomber and you’re the one who has had contact with each and every person who has been in the same room as the safe.”

“So it’s in your bedroom,” Gregory nodded.

Mycroft was surprised and he let himself show it. He hadn’t thought Gregory would make the connection this quickly. The response to his surprise was a chuckle.

“Well, the maids goliterally _everywhere_ else. Only the bedroom is my domain alone… and yours, of course.”

“And recently whomever I’ve decided to bring home,” Mycroft stated in disgust, “Whom you’ve been the one to turn out.”

“I haven’t exactly been keeping a list,” Gregory replied, “Have you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, picking a file up from his desk and handing it over. 

Gregory looked shocked, then he opened it up and chuckled, “Well, that’s a relief.”

“What is?” Mycroft asked.

“I thought I’d blocked some out for a moment, but this thing is thick because you’ve got their whole damn life stories in here!” Gregory flipped through the pages, then whistled in surprise, “And you let _her_ into bed with you? Not my pick…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft stated, his tone a warning.

“Right,” Greg nodded, turning professional, “Apologies, sir. I’ll get right on this.”

Gregory turned sharply and left, leaving Mycroft aching with want as he stared after that perfect tail. He stretched out his wings in frustration and brought them back in. _What have I done? What have I done? How could I be so blind? All is lost, where was I? Spoiled all… spoiled all. Everything’s gone wrong._ Then he texted Sherlock back for the first time in ages.

**I know. - MH** ****

XXX

John came home tired and sad. He knew he’d overreacted. He also knew they were _both_ responsible for having unprotected sex. He wasn’t sure about the condoms and whether or not he’d seen them at the store, but he did know that he needed to make peace with Sherlock. The easiest way to do that was to admit he was wrong, let Sherlock have a good long gloat, and then try not to bring it up ever again.

John opened the door to their flat and stared in shock. The lights were dim, candles were lit, and Sherlock was sitting down at a _clean_ table with a bowl full of ice that had a cup sitting in the middle. John approached and realized it was a chocolate milkshake- likely malt as that was his favourite. Sherlock then held up a box.

“Pick one,” Sherlock stated.

John looked inside and saw each and every CD he and Sherlock owned.

“Okay… why?”

“Because we haven’t got a song for me to play when I want you to know I’m sorry.”

John smiled, plucking the box out of Sherlock’s hands and placing it on the table. He pulled him up to his feet and pressed close to him, wrapping his wings tightly around Sherlock’s body and laying his head on his chest. John let his ears relax until they laid flat against his head, bringing up his mating song. The soft rolling trill and crooning sound flowed through and around them. John shifted to one side and Sherlock moved with him, one hand on John’s shoulder and the other on his hip. Their sway evolved slowly into a dance until Sherlock felt confident enough to join in, humming with that sinfully deep voice until John was aching for him. He lifted his head and they kissed slowly, their song fading out as their passion rose. 

“I need you,” John whispered softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied huskily.  

They moved down the hall, shedding clothes and exchanging heated kisses. When they got into the bedroom John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and held up a condom in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other.

“Your choice,” Sherlock replied.

John shook his head with a bemused smile, “I just want _you_. I don’t care how.”

Sherlock hesitated and then chose the lube with a hungry smile. John grinned as well, then gave Sherlock a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom to prep himself. 

“Don’t stretch yourself!” Sherlock called, “I want to do that so I can find your prostate easily during sex!”

“Don’t shout that sort of thing through the flat!” John shouted back, “Mrs. Hudson will hear!”

John went into the loo and found the enema kit he always kept around for when Sherlock’s experiments went _very_ bad. He used it with ease, making sure he was as clean as possible for Sherlock. He wanted this to be perfect. Whoever that Victor bloke was, he’d never been the kind enough to let Sherlock try topping. Possibly it was because Sherlock was hung like a cow, but most likely it was because the guy was a dick. Finally certain he was lickably clean, he headed out to join Sherlock where he was kneeling naked on the bed. He looked ready to ravage John, and he felt a bit of anxiety well up.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock chastised, “I’m not even the biggest. Horses and zebras are far larger.”

“I’m thinking you’ve got one of those somewhere in your tree,” John laughed nervously, “But I’m fine. Just take it easy on me.”

“I intend to. Luckily we slaked my lust earlier. I’m completely in control.”

“Really,” John smirked, slipping onto the bed with him and taking his cock in one skilled hand, “Because you look ready to tear my arse apart.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Sherlock purred.

John felt a thrill go up his spine and pressed himself against Sherlock’s front, nuzzling their noses together and letting his song trill out.

“I _must_ record that,” Sherlock panted, “Bloody hell. It does something to me.”

“Good,” John soothed, taking their cocks in hand and stroking then together, “I can’t believe how horny I am. It’s like just knowing I can have you has upped my sex drive.”

“Oh joy,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, “Because I’m already able to keep up with it.”

John chuckled, “Relax. I’ve been in relationships with non-rabbits before. I know how it is. I wank every day whether single or not so the sex is about being close to you, not just getting off.”  

“You masturbated this morning and you _still_ want sex twice?”

“I want sex _constantly_ ,” John groaned, stroking them both faster, “I could literally have sex once an hour.”

“Well,” Sherlock gasped, feeling the pressure build up, “I don’t have that advantage, so I suggest you _stop_.”

John groaned in a different way this time, pulling away from him, “I suppose it would be easiest to prep me on my stomach…”

“No. I’ll lay down, I want you in my lap.”

“Wait, what?” John asked in confusion, “But I thought…”

“I want you writhing in my lap,” Sherlock growled stretching out on his back on the bed, “And I need to be able to locate your prostate. Therefore I will stretch you in the position that I will be fucking you in. Come here.”

John’s cock twitched eagerly as Sherlock patted his lap, “That’s a bit naughty.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock flirted. 

JoJohn climbed into Sherlock’s lap and stared at those long fingers as he lubed them up. Sherlock’s smirk was full of promise as he slid his hand down to stroke and tease John’s entrance. He clenched instantly, arching his back to press his cheeks closed. 

“Um. Okay. So _that_ was involuntary,” John blushed. 

“Hm,” Sherlock frowned a moment, then grinned, “Come up here and sit on my face.”

“What? Really?” John asked, climbing up eagerly.

“You were ready to be topped earlier when I had you hot and bothered, let’s get you there again.”

John leaned back on long arms and put each foot by Sherlock’s head, his lover’s hands helping him slip into position. John’s arse was spread wide in the palms of Sherlock’s hands, his cock twitching as it curved over his belly. A bead of precome started up at the very thought of being rimmed as Sherlock began to kiss his spread cheeks. John keened a bit at the first lap. His nerve endings were alive and his entrance kept fluttering on it’s own. He had a panicked moment where he feared he’d fart, but then his mind soared out of his body as Sherlock speared his tongue and began to press it into him before pulling out and flickering it around his stimulated pucker. John was suddenly _very_ open to the idea of something being in his arse, because if it felt half as good as this he was going to ride Sherlock into oblivion. John didn’t even realize when Sherlock’s tongue was joined by Sherlock’s finger; not until it had pressed into him up to the second knuckle. Then he was pressing back, pushing Sherlock’s head into his pillow. He wanted to touch his cock. He _needed_ to get off. _NOW!_

He must have been spouting those thoughts out loud because Sherlock answered him from beneath his grinding hips, “Soon, John. Just open up for me a bit more, my love.”

The ‘my love’ was what did it, because even in the midst of Lovebird Syndrome Sherlock wasn’t romantically demonstrative. John’s cock twitched and he howled for release. Sherlock pressed a second finger in and the burn grounded John a bit, but he was still aching so much his head was spinning. He tipped a bit to the side and Sherlock rolled them rather than let John hurt himself. John flailed on the bed, wings knocking the lamp and other odds and ends over as he kicked his legs and arched his back in search of friction. Sherlock pinned his legs with two of his, straddling John’s thighs, and grasped his cock tightly. The squeeze made John freeze, and he keened in need, his song warbling up as he pleaded wordlessly for his mate to sooth his painful loins. 

“Hush, John. Soon. Let me stretch you a bit more. Sherlock slipped his fingers back inside and John closed his eyes, letting himself just _feel_ the stretch. He rolled his hips the best he could with Sherlock pinning him and gripping his cock. He could hear himself whimpering constantly and knew he sounded pathetic, but when he cracked open one eye Sherlock looked far from disgusted. His eyes were blown, his face tense with longing, and his lips parted as he panted with want. He was up to three fingers now, and he started seeking around for John’s prostate. He stroked it and John’s eyes rolled up in his head as pleasure tensed his entire body. If Sherlock hadn’t been holding his cock so tightly he’d have come, but as it was he cried out and all but sobbed as a dry orgasm rolled through him.

“ _Gods_!” Sherlock gasped, his expression one of awe.

John scratched at the bedding in frustration, “If you don’t fuck me _right now_ I won’t be responsible for my actions.” 

“If I let go of your cock you’ll come.”

John closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths while counting back from ten. When he opened them again he nodded to Sherlock and the man released his tense member. John sighed in relief and they once again shuffled positions. When Sherlock was on his back for him again John straddled his thighs, minding his claws as he took his slick cock into one hand. Sherlock’s jaw went slack as John sank down on him, his eyelids flickering until the finally fell closed and Sherlock gripped the bedding to stop from thrusting up. For his part John was too far gone to focus on the lingering pain of being pierced on that thick member. He knew satisfaction lay on the other side of this moment and was only careful enough not to harm himself. Sherlock’s horns were an opportunity too good to pass up, so once he was seated John gripped them tightly. 

“Ready?” John asked, because Sherlock looked completely undone.

“Magma,” Sherlock gasped, “hot fluid or semifluid material below or within the earth's crust from which lava and other igneous rock is formed by cooling.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” John replied, and slid up that hard shaft with a hiss of surprise. 

Sherlock needn’t have worried about hitting John’s prostate. With his size it was virtually impossible to miss it. John was riding him wildly now, wings outstretched so they could flap a bit to give him the life to rise up high enough on that long cock without straining his thighs. It felt _glorious_. The glide in and the stroke out each brushed the head of his cock against John’s p-spot until he was gasping and groaning endlessly. He ended up giggling a bit as he pictured himself pole dancing while masturbating, but even that image fled his mind as pleasure continued to curl in his gut. 

Sherlock was rocking up into him, eyes fluttering open and then clenching shut as he fought the urge to blow his load the instant John sank down on his cock. _This_ was why he’d wanted John on top, because watching him with arms stretched out, wings spanning the room, blissed out on sex, was so visceral it was driving him as wild as the feel of the hot passage clenching around his body. When John threw his head back and came with a sharp cry of pleasure his muscles tightened around Sherlock’s cock and then massaged him until he was shouting out his own climax, filling John’s body as pulse after pulse of satisfaction pounded out of his body. 

John didn’t faint this time. Instead he let out a sigh of completion and drifted down to lay on Sherlock’s chest as if he’d descended by parachute. His wings dropped down, draping down the length of the bed to touch the floor. Sherlock tangled one hand lovingly in his hair. 

_Mine.  
_

[CHAPTER 9](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/180056.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 9

 

** John Watson is definitely in danger. Jim Moriarty x ** ** **

** What are you going on about? – SH ** ** **

** I just got a text from an anonymous person. Save souls now! John or James Watson! Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is less? Jim Moriarty x ** ** **

Sherlock nearly dropped his phone as he scrambled out the door.

“Who did this?” John asked, oxygen mask in place as the paramedics checked him over, “Sherlock, who put me in that bonfire?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, “And I don’t like not knowing.”

“Moriarty?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone to show it to John, “He’s the one who told me where you were. I’m turning it in every direction, but I don’t think it was him. I think someone is playing us _both_. Think about it, John. Moriarty- a powerful man in the criminal world- threatens us at gun-and-bomb-point. Then does what? Nothing!”

“He sent Irene after us.”

“Yes, but that was a year ago and it was more of a game! No attempt on our lives, no wiggling into our circle, no _threats_ of any kind. You’d at least have expected to see a Moriarty-esque plot in the papers, but nothing! With the lifestyle he lives he must be going broke, he’s been so still!”

“Then he texts you out of nowhere and pretends it’s a text from someone else. So either you two have a mutual enemy who has been keeping him quiet, or he’s gotten less subtle and is playing us like your violin.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed, stroking John’s singed ear, “No more serious burns?”

“No. Just a bit… smoked.”

Sherlock gave him a wan smile, nuzzling his soft ears and then turning his head to rub their ears together. John sighed and nuzzled into him, the medic scowling as he was forced to work around them. 

“You two lovebirds?” He asked, not meaning the term literally. 

“Yeah,” John answered, ignoring Sherlock’s confused look, “That obvious?”

“You might as well be handcuffed together,” The man chuckled, “Let’s get you both in the ambulance. He’ll need to be monitored for a few hours at least, maybe overnight.”

Once situated in the hospital Sherlock paced the room, hands behind his back and eyes narrowed. Molly visited, her whiskers trembling as she fussed over Sherlock and tried to press food on him. Since he’d started producing more milk due to John’s more regular feedings she’d become even more interested in him than ever. Sherlock finally got sick of her hovering and shouted at her to go get herself petted and try not to pick a sociopath this time. 

“We’ll find whoever it was,” John soothed, “And in the meantime try not to take it out on Molly, hm? She’s a good friend to you.”

Sherlock scoffed and John gave him an amused look, “Someday you’ll look around you and realize just how many people you couldn’t stand to lose, Sherlock.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, giving him a confused look.

“You always say I’m your only friend, but that’s just not true. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft in his own interfering way.”

“Don’t lump him in with…” Sherlock stopped then, eyes wide with alarm, “Oh… oh that’s…”

“What?” John asked.

“How did he know Moriarty would contact me? Surely whoever sent Jim the text didn’t think _you_ were his chum, and _I’m_ certainly not, so whoever it is…”

“My gods. It’s someone _within_ his own network! He’s being manipulated!”

“Or he’s hiding from them and that was the bastard’s way of telling Moriarty that he knows where he is and what his priorities are. Burn the heart out of me… burn _you alive_. He was stealing Moriarty’s victory! Of course he’d tell me! I wouldn’t be surprised if he had people there ready to pull you out if I didn’t arrive in time! Footage. I need to see footage.”

“Sherlock!” John called before he could bolt, “What about us? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, but…”

Sherlock nodded, “I wish I could tell you I knew, but at this juncture…”

Then he left with his tail nearly catching on the door in his hurry to leave.  

XXX

Mycroft admitted his butler into his office and smiled at the relieved look on his face, “I take it you caught him?”

“Yeah,” Greg grinned eagerly, “I followed your instructions precisely. It was just like you said. I found him. And the papers. Some sort of plans. I didn’t look at them, I just saw when I picked them up, so I don’t know if they’re all there.”

Mycroft looked through the plans and frowned, “Three pages are missing.”

“Three?” Lestrade’s face fell.

“You’ll have to question him,” Mycroft replied, “Spare no pity. He must…”

“Mycroft, he’s _dead_.”

Mycroft’s slid back into his seat with wide eyes, “What? How?”

“I found him on the tracks. Someone murdered him for those papers and dumped him on the tracks.”

“He was murdered _on_ the tracks?” Mycroft asked.

“No, it was definitely a secondary scene. Not enough blood, and he had no ticket or oyster card on him.”

“Describe the scene to me. _Exactly_. Leave nothing out.”

Greg shut his eyes and started spitting out details in no apparent order. Mycroft let his mind shift into his Mind Office, all the bits of Greg’s description falling into place like jigsaw puzzle pieces. 

“Stop,” Mycroft stated, and Greg fell silent, “I know where they were. Now we just need to find out how to lure them in. The pages missing are the most crucial parts of the missile plans. With them they’ll have an edge that we cannot allow. They’ll be waiting to sell them- searching for the highest bidder- but if we don’t act fast that sort of transaction could take seconds electronically.”

XXX

Sherlock and John stood by the pool, John trying not to sweat as the memories of having a bomb strapped to him threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t fold his wings, they were agitated and flexing at his side, one always extended over Sherlock in a gesture of possessive protection: Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him every once in a while, his eyes glimmering with pride and ownership. 

“Evening,” Moriarty sang, appearing before them in… normal clothes? Well, almost normal, if you considered lime green pants visible above your trousers normal. 

“Jim,” Sherlock nodded, “I see you’re _actually_ alone today.”

John’s wings wilted a bit, “No snipers?”

“He couldn’t afford it,” Sherlock replied, “He doesn’t know who in his organization has betrayed him. He’s barely keeping up appearances as it is, so meeting with us to ask for help would have gotten _him_ shot.”

Moriarty sighed, “It’s so pleasant dealing with someone intelligent for a change. Look at all the tedious conversation we’ve just been spared. Until boy-toy opened his mouth, that is.”

“Call him that again and I’ll kill you,” Sherlock stated calmly, “John is my mate. My _life_ mate.”

“So you…”

“Quite.”

“Well… there go my plans to kill him off and bed you,” Moriarty looked disappointed.

“Like you said, hours of tedious conversation avoided. Now then, we usually hold these meetings at our home so… John, do find us some chairs?”

“What, why?” John wondered.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked, “What’s he doing here?”

“Intimidating us with his neon pants?”

“No, what’s he doing here, _right now._ That people usually do in our flat?”

“Oh, I see,” John nodded, “Just a tic.”

John vanished into the locker rooms and came back with a couple of desk chairs from the lobby on the other side. He put them into position across from each other and Sherlock sat himself in one while John indicated the other.

“This is the part where _I_ play dumb- bit difficult, but I _am_ a talented actor. What exactly are we interviewing for?” Moriarty asked, “Oh, look at that. I’m actually _good_ at playing dumb. Really, I amaze myself.”

“This,” John indicated the chair he’d fetched for Moriarty, “Is where they sit when they come to see us and tell us their stories.”

“Who?”

“Clients,” John replied firmly.

Several expressions flickered over Moriarty’s face- pride, anger, outrage, and disgust- before finally settling on miserable acceptance. He sat down in the chair, crossed his ankles, and took in a deep breath.

“It started just before The Woman contacted you…” Moriarty began. 

XXX

Sherlock slipped around the side entrance, climbed over the fence with a boost from John, and dropped silently onto the small patch of grass on the other side. The building was a façade. All he had to do was get in and the area below where the trains’ vents ran through would be visible. He picked the lock quickly and easily, but a sound caught his ear. John was speaking to someone in low tones. That made no sense at all. They were _alone_ and anyone creeping up on them _should_ have earned a one-way ticket to hospital with blood loss. Sherlock crept back and peered through a crack in the fence.

“Lestrade?” He hissed.

“Once you get the door unlocked, open the front door,” Lestrade whispered back.

“What? Why?” Sherlock asked, “The whole point of going in through the side was to avoid…”

“Just bloody do it,” John sighed, rubbing at his face in frustration, “We’ve had this conversation already and it’s moot.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to comply, but when he opened the door the last person he expected to see was _Mycroft_.

“Thank you, dear brother,” Mycroft sighed, “Honestly, the idea of _me_ jumping a fence!”

“I should punch you,” Sherlock growled.

John and Lestrade slipped in behind him from where they’d followed him in through the alley.

“Now what?” Lestrade asked, “Our contact was supposed to meet us in an hour. What if we’ve alerted him?”

“ _Your_ contact?” John asked, “Ours is supposed to show in two.”

“This could get awkward,” Sherlock muttered, “And us without tea.”

“Who is _your_ contact?” Mycroft asked, eyes narrowed.

“Who is _yours_?” Sherlock demanded.

“Probably the fellow who showed up _three_ hours early to Sherlock’s meeting and _two_ hours early to Mycroft’s,” A voice spoke from the shadows.

Lights flickered on and a thin man stepped out of a chair, walking down the narrow passage of the false house. He expertly avoided pipes without looking at them, his eyes glued on them all. It wasn’t until he was closer that John recognized him as he’d previously weighed a good deal more.

“If you’re hoping Mr. Moriarty will swing in and rescue you I’m afraid you’re _quite_ at a disadvantage,” He replied.

“Dawson,” Sherlock snarled at the same time that Mycroft hissed out, “ _Magnussen_!”

“Who?” They both asked, giving each other surprised looks.

“The fellow who abducted John and I while we were in Russia,” Sherlock explained.

“You were _abducted_ in _Russia_?” Mycroft sputtered.

“You didn’t _know_?” Sherlock asked in clear shock.

“I was trapped in a panic room during a bombing!”

“Yes, getting buggered. I recall,” Sherlock nodded, “You made time for that, why not to check up on me?”

“Because, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, “Believe it or not I can’t always spare time to both run the country and _pamper_ you!”

“Pamper me?!” Sherlock shouted, looking truly offended.

“Boys,” John sighed, “Could we not do this?”

“But he…!” Sherlock and Mycroft shouted, each pointing at the other.

Magnussen interrupted with, “ _If_ you’re _quite_ through.

They both gave him their attention, but only to scowl at him angrily. Mycroft in particular looked peckish, which Sherlock noticed.

“Don’t even think about it. Your diet would be _ruined_.”

“You won’t get me that way again,” Magnussen snickered, “I’m no coward, my dear. Now then, let’s discuss my terms. Harriet? Would you be so kind?”

An angry looking rabbit in tight jeans and a lose blue blouse- who looked by _no means_ the least bit shy or twitchy- stepped out from behind a large pipe. Here white ears were flattened against her head, her red eyes were narrowed, and she was clearly ready to rip out his throat if given the opportunity. Yet she was not tied up in any way. She simply walked past Magnussen, glaring at him the entire way, and headed for John. Magnussen stopped her with a word.

“Good girl. Now. Turn around and come back to me. Very good. Isn’t she _obedient_?”

“Yeah,” John replied, licking his lips anxiously, “You’ll have to teach _me_ that trick. 

“Oh, he’s _funny_ , Harriet! You didn’t tell me he was _funny_!” Magnussen chuckled. 

“Harry, what’s going on?” Sherlock asked of the woman as she stood beside Magnussen with her arms folded and a disgusted look on her face. 

“Mycroft hasn’t told you? This is how I run the America, but I’m branching out, you see. I’d like to have England as well, but your dear brother here had it all tightly locked down. So I infiltrated Moriarty’s network to find out what only an enemy- and an intelligent one- would know. Did you know that you aren’t even listed as Mycroft’s brother in Brittain’s records? He’s gone to great lengths to hide you. I thought from shame, at first, but that’s not it, is it?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied, chest puffed out, “I love my brother but he’s…”

Mycroft cut himself off, glancing aside at Sherlock.

“A burden,” Sherlock filled in, his tone bitter.

“No, I wasn’t going to say that,” Mycroft stammered, clearly flustered.

“No, he wasn’t,” Magnussen replied, “He was going to say ‘weakness’, but my preferred term is ‘pressure point’. You see it’s quite simple. I own Harry- via a piece of information I’ve collected that will remain secret so long as she behaves- therefore I own John, therefore I own Sherlock, therefore I own Mycroft, therefore I own Great Britain.” 

“Damn,” Sherlock sighed, “I’ll probably have to start paying _taxes_ now.”

“You haven’t been?” John asked. 

“Of course not. Why, have you?” 

“Well, yeah. They’re _taxes_. It’s like the saying: ‘the only thing I have to do is pay taxes and die’. So I pay taxes.”

“That statement is wholly inaccurate and…”

Harry screamed. John and Sherlock jumped in alarm and stared at where Magnussen was running his tongue up and down her neck while she looked fit to be sick all over herself, yet she was _still_ not fighting back.  

“There, see? Got your attention, didn’t I. Now if you’re _quite_ through trying to handle the situation with humour as if this were some ridiculous sitcom, I believe you interrupted my _monologue_.”

“Yes, because that’s not-“ Sherlock’s smart reply was cut off by John elbowing him hard enough to knock him sideways into Mycroft. Luckily they righted themselves rather than resort to slapstick. 

“Good boy,” Magnussen replied, “Now where was I? Ah, yes. I _wanted_ to get to Mr. Lestrade there, but he was so rarely out of the house and when I spoke to him in therapy it revealed that Mycroft wasn’t returning his feelings. So that was a dead end.”

“Oh gods,” Lestrade’s eyes widened, “I thought you looked familiar. Add weight and a tail and…”

“Instant squirrel! You never recognized me and I looked different enough to not pop up on CCTV’s identification software. God bless face putty and make-up!”

“You _posed_ as a _therapist_ to get information on me!” He gaped.

He chuckled, “Look around yourselves! Breaking and entering? This is my private property!”

“Yours?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“He won it,” Mycroft sighed, “In a card game from… a very illustrious individual.”

“You are _ever_ so delicate with these things Mycroft,” Magnussen cooed, “I think I’ll keep you on after I finish conquering your nation. I’ll be keeping the plans, incidentally. Harriet, you can go with them now but I’ll be in contact. Remember what we discussed.”

Magnussen turned with a gleam and Sherlock started forward, but Harry stepped in his way and gave him a terrified look, her motions defensive towards Magnussen. John grasped Sherlock’s arm to hold him back and then squeezed past to pull Harry into his arms the second the door clicked shut behind Magnussen. Harry burst into tears while John held her, petting her long ears soothingly while whispering softly that everything would be okay. The proud strong woman who Sherlock had first laid eyes on was inconsolable.   


[CHAPTER 10](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/187214.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 10

Trigger Warning: Suicidal thoughts  
  
London’s bomber was sitting in a cell deep beneath the streets he had terrorized, placed there by Magnussen himself as a show of his power. The world felt safer but John felt as if he’d opened up a container of sani-gel and found it infested with germs. He just hadn’t seen it before now. 

The bomber, it turned out, _was_ a part of Moriarty’s organization- Lord Moran- but he had been acting alone in an attempt to impress and woo Moriarty. When Magnussen found out he had used that information to threaten Moriarty and control him, threatening to disclose to his organization that Moriarty had a shifty little Prey lover who was out of control and blowing up cities without retribution for his actions. Moriarty couldn’t afford to look whipped so he’d paid up in spades, handing over crime after crime to Magnussen for him to report on much in the way he’d handed Sherlock clues to flirt with him. Not being content with London’s criminal network, he now wanted to own England as well. So the most terrifying criminal in the world had been one who was virtually squeaky clean. He had wielded no weapon, caused no physical harm, and extorted no money. He got stories and favours in return for keeping secrets he uncovered while ‘doing his job’ as a reporter. And in that way he owned the world. 

So John and Sherlock watched in horror as exports to America increased, while the barely recovered economy took another dip, as the rich got richer and the poor became destitute. Products were on the shelves and windows had glass pane once more, but beneath it all England was struggling as prices rose until people started demanding higher wage only to be laid off when employers couldn’t manage to pay them what they needed to survive.

“So,” Sherlock breathed as he stared out their window, “This is what it looks like when England falls in slow motion.”

“Is it going to get that bad?” John asked in concern.

“We’ve gone from America being our colonies to us being theirs,” Sherlock replied, “Except there’s no proof, no tax to rebel against, no leader to rail against. What do you think?”

“I think we need something on Magnussen,” John replied.

“I’d love that, but the only crime he’s committed is blackmail and the only proof is if the person being blackmailed steps forward and turns themselves _and him_ in! Harry still won’t tell you what he has on her?”

“She’s not been sober since,” John sighed, “You’d think that would loosen her lips, but it hasn’t. Mycroft is sending her to rehab but she seems to have given up. We _need_ something on him! Will he meet with us?”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed, “He’s unbearably closed up. He doesn’t meet with _anyone_ unless it’s on _his_ terms. He doesn’t have friends, family, lovers, or even acquaintances. He has employees, and they’re all fiercely loyal; one can only assume because he has something on them.”

“So what do we _do_?!” John asked in frustration.

“We bring him to us,” Sherlock replied, “We need to lure him in. I absolutely _must_ seem more vulnerable than Harry. He needs something on _me_ directly instead of her.”

“What? Why?” John asked, standing and crossing to where Sherlock paced the room. John’s wings remained around him when in confined quarters like their flat, but now that they were together it wasn’t unusual for him to pull Sherlock into them. He tried to now, but Sherlock shrugged him off leaving John to hold himself tightly as anxiety filled his gut, “Sherlock, _why_?”

“Because it will make him meet with me. I either need to become a victim or find one that will talk, and the last one I tracked down died this morning,” Sherlock indicated a suicide on the front page of the paper. Lord Smallwood was prominent in politics but had killed himself without leaving a note; his wife was at hospital being treated for Lovebird Sickness. 

“So what are you going to do to give him something on you?”

“Well drugs was my first choice…”

“I thought so. No. Fuck no, Sherlock. What if you’re pregnant?”

Sherlock froze and sent John a horrified look. John held up a hand, “That’s not my only reason for saying no. I don’t want to lose you. I may not be in Lady Smallwood’s shoes, but my life would still be hollow without you. Lets find something on me, okay? I did some shifty stuff during my time in service, maybe something is juicy enough for him?”

“You call smuggling hospital supplies shifty?” Sherlock snorted as he dropped into a chair, “Those saved lives. You’d probably get your own sitcom.”

John snorted, “So what else? What if I wrote you out a prescription for a sedative, made a big scene outside a drug den, and then we fudged the drug results?”

“He’s too thorough,” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. Then he froze and his eyes widened, “Oh. Oh, no he isn’t. He missed something crucial.”

“So we _can_ fudge it?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “When manipulating anyone the truth and solid fact are always more reliable than fiction. I found something while digging that he’s not aware of and it may be our ticket in.”

“What?” John asked.

“Someone… someone from my past is in his organization and has managed to keep a secret from _him_. If we let that secret loose…”

Sherlock stood and bolted from the room, taking the stairs two at a time while John chased after him shouting. When he got downstairs he was hailing a cab.

“Take the next one,” Sherlock stated.

“What? Why?”

“Because you might talk,” Sherlock replied, leaving John shocked and annoyed as he hopped into a cab.

“I don’t even know where we’re going! Sherlock!”

XXX

Sherlock had vanished into thin air and even Mycroft couldn’t locate him. They set about searching his boltholes, but he was simply gone and his homeless network tended to spit on John rather than agree to help track Sherlock down. Then someone contacted the police _about_ Sherlock, but in a fashion that was truly shocking. They were reporting him. For _kidnapping_.

John and Lestrade hurried out of the elevator and down the hall to the division that handled crimes against children. Sherlock was sitting in a chair looking completely wrecked, his hand cuffed to the armrest, his clothes filthy, bits of twigs and leaves in his hair, and a lost look on his face. He’d been crying, his eyes puffy and red, but he’d past that now and was simply staring miserably up at John.

“I’m sorry,” He stated, his voice raw and devoid of emotion, “Please don’t leave me.”

“What happened?” John asked, “No, don’t tell me. Don’t say _anything_ until your solicitor gets here. Mycroft’s got one on the way.”

“It won’t do him any good,” The DI at the desk he was cuffed by, who had been on the phone up until that point, turned to face them with a sigh, “The security tapes caught him breaking in, the child has already made a statement, his father has stated he’s expected this to happen for some time, and we caught him _with_ the lad in a _stolen car_ trying to get to the airport. We’re not even offering a plea bargain, he’s going down.”

“No,” John argued, “No, see, this is just a plot of his gone wrong.”

“Obviously,” The woman snorted.

“No, that’s not what I mean!” John insisted, “He’s Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective?”

“So?”

“So he was on a _case_ ,” John nodded as if this would solve everything, but even Lestrade seemed unconvinced, “Look, he was doing this to get a _criminal’s_ attention. If you let him go he’ll solve the case and everything will be fine.”

“A child is _traumatized_ ,” The woman stated, “He’s just lucky the child didn’t show signs of any kind of abuse or…”

“This is SHERLOCK HOLMES!” John ranted, “He is _not_ a criminal!”

At that moment a door opened and a boy around twelve years old with dark curly hair and light brown fur was led out of a room by a man with dark brown fur and long horns. They were both bulls, the younger one’s horns just coming in. 

“Oh my gods,” John gaped at what could _only_ be Sherlock’s son. The lad took one look at Sherlock and screamed in apparent fear.

“Arthur!” Sherlock shouted, trying to stand despite the limitations of the cuff, “Please, Arthur! I can explain! I’m your _mother_! Arthur, please!”

“Get that kid out of here!” The DI shouted, “I told you to keep them apart!”

The private who had bungled it hurried away with the lad and the angry father, stammering apologies, while the DI turned back to John with hands on hips.

“Tell that to the kid who screams every time he sees him,” She replied, giving Sherlock a disgusted look.

XXX

“How could I not know?” Mycroft ranted, pacing their sitting room, “ _How_ could I not _know?!_ ” 

“It is a bit obvious, in hind sight,” Lestrade decided, “Seeing as he lactates.”

“I was assured that was a side effect of the medication they gave him to get him clean!” Mycroft ranted.

John stared at Sherlock’s chair miserably from where he sat in his own chair with his wings wrapped tightly around himself like a blanket. His bare feet met on the floor and he had been painfully silent. Lestrade, a solicitor, and Mycroft had shown up at the police station shortly after the scene with the child. Mycroft had seen the lad on the way in and his face was ashen.

“How?” He’d demanded, “How did you manage to have a child and keep him secret from me?!”

“Angry that you’re not as omnipotent as you thought?” Sherlock snarled.

“I realize that his age puts him at the time you were tossed out of the house, but still! I visited you!”

“Baggy clothes and pattern use,” Sherlock replied, “You had no idea I was four months pregnant and I made sure our fight was ferocious enough to keep you away when I _really_ started showing.”

“Why didn’t you come to me afterwards?” Mycroft pleaded, “I’d have gotten you proper care! I’d have fought the courts for you! Gotten you your child back!”

Sherlock looked away. Lestrade answered.

“SGD,” Lestrade replied, “He was too depressed to fight for his rights. He was hoping to die.”

“I didn’t want to die, exactly,” Sherlock replied, “If I had I wouldn’t have kept my milk going. That’s what made me stay alive; a link to my child.”

“Gods,” John groaned, “Then I came along and now you’re thinking family again and… Sherlock, you could have come to me if you were in too deep. I’d have helped!”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly, “I was worried about pushing you too far.”

“Not going to happen,” John replied.

The solicitor and the police officer were done talking. They came over to Sherlock and explained to him that he’d be locked up until a court date was set. John could visit due to Sherlock’s SGD, but otherwise he was going to be unable to have visitors besides his lawyer. 

XXX

Lestrade felt drained. Mycroft had fired most of his staff and now relied almost entirely on Lestrade. That was keeping the SGD from overwhelming him, but it was also tiring. Especially since he couldn’t curl up in his absent lover’s arms at the end of the day and just _sleep_. No. He had to sneak a worn shirt out of Mycroft’s hamper and curl up alone in his bed, miserable and lonely, wishing for the real thing rather than the smell of Mycroft near him. He had an entire collection of shed feathers, mismatched socks, and stained shirts and ties. His bed had become a creepy shrine to Mycroft Holmes that the man was either unaware of or unbothered by. Lestrade was bothered by it. He knew it was an unhealthy and pathetic obsession over a man who clearly wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with a man who literally _needed_ him to live.

Not for the last time Lestrade considered his illegal firearm. It tasted like burnt leaves in his mouth- as all things did. He’d never eaten so healthy, at least. He had to force every bite, but with his body no longer enjoying food all he ever ate were necessary foods like vegetables, fruit, and meat. 

Lestrade stood and went to his bedside, Mycroft’s shirt wrapped around his neck to give him the sweet scent of his mate-who-wasn’t-his-mate. He pulled out the gun and studied it silently. Then he loaded it. 

_ Poor John. Poor Sherlock. They had it so good, now look at them! At least John understands. Sherlock will be okay. Not me. I’m less than useless. I’m pathetic. Worthless. A sorry excuse for a living being. Mycroft will take one look at the bed he finds me in and be grateful I finally pulled the trigger. He’ll be so relieved. I bet he’ll dance for joy! At least he’ll be happy finally… he can find someone who deserves him. Someone smart. Someone charming. Like he is.  _

A knock at his door stopped Lestrade just as he was curling onto his side and angling the gun in his mouth.

“Gregory?” An anxious voice called.

_ Mycroft. My love! _

Lestrade stood, slipping the gun’s safety back on and tucking it into the back of his sleep pants. It felt warm and damp against his arsecrack. He opened the door with a loving smile for his beloved.

“Everything okay?” He asked, restraining the hand that wanted to reach out and stroke the downy feathers around his mouth. Mycroft hadn’t shaved today. The stress, most likely.

“I’m… I’d like… I was hoping to…” Mycroft stammered, “I’m no good at this sort of thing. Gregory, come to bed with me. Please.”

Lestrade blinked in shock, “I… yeah, okay. Just let me grab something quick.”

Lestrade grabbed his preferred condom brand- one that had room for his knot- out of his bedside drawer along with a bottle of lube that he probably really didn’t need if he recalled how wet Mycroft could become when aroused. He followed Mycroft to his bedroom, deciding he’d at least get one more night with his lover before taking his life.

XXX

John was in shock. Sherlock was being held in the local prison while awaiting trial- they’d denied him bail but John was allowed visitation due to their mating connection. When he came- and he planned on practically living at the prison- Sherlock was ravenous for him. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, pulling him into his arms. They had a little trailer all to themselves for one hour whenever Sherlock stated he needed to see his mate. 

John had planned on _talking_ to Sherlock, but he hadn’t been able to tolerate the protein shakes Mycroft had secured for him so he hadn’t had anything substantial to eat in over fourty-eight hours. The scent of Sherlock’s milk, the sight of it leaking through his prison garb, sent John into frenzy. He had Sherlock pinned to the ground of the tiny trailer and was suckling his teats without any recollection of removing his shirt. It was around Sherlock’s neck, and the man quickly squirmed it the rest of the way off. Sherlock’s hands stroked along John’s body, teasing the ruff at his neck and stroking his sensitive ears. John moaned as he gulped down his milk, switching from nipple to nipple as he worked his way down. 

“John…” Sherlock gasped, “Condoms. I have them here and… _fuck!_ ”

John swallowed him down, Sherlock writhing and moaning in pleasure as he arched up into John’s throat.

“I want _actual_ sex, John,” Sherlock panted, “I need you to get off… several times if possible.”

John worked his shaft harder with one hand while reaching down to finger his arsehole with the other. Sherlock’s half-hearted protests went ignored. He pushed at John’s shoulders just before he came hard down his throat, collapsing on his back in satisfaction.

“Mmm,” John purred, climbing up Sherlock’s body, “So tasty. I’m going to fuck you _so hard_ , Sherlock Holmes.”

“John, it’s imperative that you put on a cond- _oh!_ ” 

John buried himself in Sherlock’s slick body, taking advantage of his post-orgasmic relaxed and aroused body. John growled as he thrust into him at a brutal pace, blissfully avoiding Sherlock’s over stimulated prostate. John was lost to pleasure, burying himself in Sherlock’s wet heat. All he could think of was breeding him, filling his absent mate with his babies so he could keep him forever. John might not be riddled with Lovebird Syndrome, but he was obsessed with Sherlock and the sight of that curly-haired calf had made him wild to have his own children with Sherlock. He would have his gorgeous lover plump with his children and _no one_ would take any of them away from him.

“I’m going to fill you up, Sherlock,” John gasped, eyes rolling back in his head as the slick walls of Sherlock’s body made him shake with pleasure, “I’ll have your babies surrounding you. In my cave. Always. Forever. _Mine_.”

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped, legs going around John’s body, “Yes, John! Harder!”

Sherlock was shaking. He’d always wanted those words from John, the longing and devotion beautiful to him. He’d happily birth a thousand children to keep John happy, to keep him _his_. John stilled his frantic thrusts, his cock pulsing inside of Sherlock’s body as he came deep inside of him. Having already been sated Sherlock was able to simply watch as his blonde head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed tight as John’s cock was inside Sherlock’s body, his mouth open to pant and groan as pleasure cascaded over him. Sherlock’s eyes caught those sharp fangs glinting in his mouth and Sherlock’s very insides _trembled_. 

“Oh gods!” John gasped, collapsing against Sherlock’s body. He was twitching a bit, his body overcome with pleasure as his mind was overwhelmed with emotions.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, just because he could. He stroked his hands through his blonde hair, counting the grey strands, “I love you so much. I’m sorry I’ve put you through this.”

“What is this, Sherlock?” John asked, lifting his head to stare misery into Sherlock’s eyes, “Why is this happening?”

“I miscalculated,” Sherlock replied, “I didn’t think seeing my offspring would make me so… emotional.”

“So you _did_ kidnap him?” John asked miserably, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a son?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Sherlock replied, “Cows- even breedable male steers like myself- don’t produce milk without having given birth at some point.”

“Why? Why aren’t you in his life?”

“His father- Victor- was the one who I told you I fell in love with. When I realized that he didn’t _also_ love me back I was devastated. He was having several affairs on the side with other men, being strictly homosexual, but was stringing me along to get an heir. I had no choice. I was already lost to him. If I left him I’d die, and I was pregnant when I found out his deception. In a way it was my first case, stalking him to find out his infidelity. I stayed because I had no choice, decorating the nursery and throwing myself into motherhood. I decided I would find a way to be happy even if he never touched me again. After I gave birth he immediately dosed me with heroine and had me arrested. I nearly died from the drugs and the post-labour stress on my body. When I came to it was a month later and I was told I would never have contact with my child. I’d been ruled an unfit mother. They claimed I’d been using during pregnancy and got a crooked doctor to attest as much. I was thrown out into the streets where I turned to drugs to silence the scream in my head. Since I’d birthed a child my body kept insisting I needed to stay alive despite the separation from my ‘mate’ and the longing to die. I kept my milk going because it would keep me alive, tricking my body into thinking I still had a child to provide for. It was a sort of punishment. Once I became sober again I devoted myself to finding criminals and seeking justice, but I never found out who was involved in Victor’s plot against me so I was never able to prove my innocence. However, Magnussen found out and he was holding it over Victor.”

“Then you saw your son when you went to ask Victor to confess in order to put Magnussen away and lost it,” John finished, “You took him. Sherlock, you _terrified_ him.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied miserably, tears starting up in his eyes, “I just wanted a chance to explain everything to him. He was so afraid, John. I never meant to scare my son.”

John slid free of Sherlock’s body and decorated his face with kisses, rolling them onto their sides to cuddle. Some of his teets still had some milk, so John nuzzled in to suckle at him, this time enjoying the meal with slow pulls.

“You can have blood if you want,” Sherlock told him softly, “I’ll do anything to make this up to you.”

John shook his head and popped off, “You don’t have to make this up to me. I’m working with Mycroft to get you off on house arrest. You’ll still go crazy, but at least you’ll be home. Especially since you’re probably pregnant now.”

“You do realize…” Sherlock paused, while John latched back on and continued to suckle, staring up at Sherlock lovingly, “You do realize that this isn’t the best time for me to be pregnant, John. We’ve made a pact with a madman whose mad boyfriend is in prison- possibly in the facility I’ll be transferred to next- to work against another madman.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed and he popped off again, “No. Not a chance. You told me once you couldn’t live with taking a morning after pill. Now I’m telling you _I_ can’t. I saw that little boy and wanted a child with you like I want _air._ Sherlock, I’m telling you I understood why you kidnapped him! Does that get through to you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded miserably, “It’s just that…”

“No, Sherlock. No way. Listen to me, we _need_ a child together. You’ll be on house arrest, but you’ll have a baby! It will make things better.”

“That’s what Victor told me,” Sherlock replied miserably, “That a baby would fix our broken relationship.”

“Our relationship isn’t _broken_ , it’s just inconvenienced by you being in jail.”

“What if they decide I’m _still_ an unfit mother, John? What if they take my baby? _Again?_ ”

“They won’t. I’m around. You didn’t hurt Arthur. And Mycroft will make sure you don’t get legally shafted again.”

John settled in to suckle, his expression telling Sherlock the conversation was over. Sherlock had no idea how to deal with John being this irrational. He had plans that John wasn’t privy to, plans that wouldn’t work with him round with child- though he had to admit the idea was more than appealing. Hopefully Sherlock’s scent and blood taste wouldn’t be affected by him taking a morning after pill. 

XXX

John walked into their home, whistling happily, to find Moriarty sitting in Sherlock’s chair. John froze and an angry growl left his throat.

“You’re going to want to get out of that chair. Now.”

Moriarty stood, his smirk telling John that he was more than willing to move, that he’d been counting on John’s reaction to amuse him. Then he gestured towards John’s laptop.

“I have a present for you, Johnny. Sherlock had me keeping them safe in case he ended up out of your hands for a while. Your instructions are to look at them whenever you miss him or are feeling… needy.”

“Thanks for dropping it off. Now get out. Our agreement with you is over. Sherlock’s in _jail_. He can’t help you now.”

“And you’re less than useless, I’m aware. Still…” Moriarty smirked as he walked passed John, moving in _far_ too close for comfort, “If his little present doesn’t do it for you… you know how to reach me.”

John’s hackles rose and his growl got louder until the door downstairs slammed shut behind the suave bastard. John bolted for the computer, frantic for some instruction from Sherlock. What greeted him was a video clip. Eager to find out what Sherlock had kept so secret that he’d had _Moriarty_ holding on to it, John clicked play. 

“Hello John,” Sherlock’s voice greeted him. He was sitting cross legged on their bed in the clip, wrapped up in his robe, “If you’re watching this it means I’m indisposed of in some way. Possibly a case, but more likely something a bit more… permanent…”

   


[CHAPTER 11](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/189036.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Reflex Ch 11

 

Mycroft was nervous. That was understandable seeing as how more than a few of his trysts had ended badly and he’d put Lestrade on a shelf. Still, Greg preferred his lovers to be relaxed and horny, not tense and jittery. So when Mycroft started anxiously pouring them each a drink he stepped up behind him and grasped both his hands to stop him.

“We don’t need that, do we? Just me, Myc. Good ole Greg.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, corking the bottle with trembling digits, “Of course. There’s… there’s so much going on now. Seeing my brother in that state. Hearing how he was so depressed… if only he’d gotten the help you had.”

Mycroft turned around to face Lestrade and he smiled sadly, “If only Victor had let him see his child, you mean. I’ve got you. Not the way I’d like you true, but I’ve got you nearby and you’re letting me take care of you. I’d be in a worse state than even Sherlock was if it weren’t for that. After all, he at least had his body telling him a child needed him.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Sherlock’s son?” Gregory asked, blinking in alarm, “I thought…”

“No no!” Mycroft laughed anxiously, “You thought correctly. I _do_ want you to… well, the thing is I want to make sure that you don’t do anything… drastic someday.”

“Drastic?” Gregory asked, “Drastic how? And how would you stop me if I were thinking on it?”

“With a _child_ , Gregory. I realize I can never give you what you want but…”

“Never, is it now?” Gregory replied sadly, “I thought it was coming to that. You want someone as smart as you are, right?”

“I doubt I’ll be finding that,” Mycroft chuckled, “I might as well be surrounded by goldfish-folk!”

Gregory smiled sadly, “So what was it you were thinking? We should discuss my funeral arrangements?”

“Don’t be ghastly,” Mycroft frowned, sitting on the foot of his bed, “I’m not getting any younger and Sherlock’s only heir is terrified of him. It’s unlikely he’ll have another between his wild ways and his trauma over the first. I propose we solve _both_ our problems at once. You give me an heir, and I give you a reason to live outside of my presence. Then I won’t have to worry about you going and killing yourself in a fit of pique.”

“So you want me to go to bed with you to… to _breed_ you?”

“Precisely,” Mycroft smiled.

“You’ve had half a dozen men and women in this room of late,” Lestrade pointed out, “I’ve no guarantee any child you have would be mine. You might be pregnant already.”

“I thought you’d mention that,” Mycroft replied, and rounded the bed to fetch an envelope, “A blood test showing I’m in fact _not_ pregnant. Satisfied?”

“I suppose,” Lestrade replied, opening it up and staring at it blankly for a moment, “So now we make a baby?”

“Exactly,” Mycroft smiled, slipping out of his robe.

He stood before Lestrade, smiling proudly as the sparse smattering of feathers fluffed across his naked body. He looked glorious, regal, and utterly captivating. Lestrade wanted him in ways he couldn’t even express, but he also didn’t want a long, drawn out, and pointless existence raising his child in a loveless union of some sort. 

“Sorry, Myc. I’ll do anything for you that I possibly can, but I won’t live like this any longer than I want to. When I decide it’s time to go, I don’t want to be held back because of a child. I’ll just end up resenting him or her. And you.”

Mycroft’s smile slid off of his face, “Resentment? Do you really think that’s what it was?”

“Was?” Gregory frowned.

“My mother was always so…” Mycroft waived his hand lightly in the air, “Bitter. Angry. Cold. She never showed us an ounce of love. Her life-mate left her broken and alone shortly after Sherlock was born. She hated her towards the end, however… why would that cause her to resent us? Why would you resent your own child?”

Gregory sighed, “It’s not your fault, Myc. None of this is, and none of what your mother went through was either. The thing is… it’s just… If I had a child I wouldn’t kill myself, but I’d _want_ to. I’d want to die every day that I got to look at you and never touch. I’d want to, but I wouldn’t be able to do it. My instincts would keep me alive until I felt my child didn’t need me anymore. So I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else to have a child with.”

“This makes no sense,” Mycroft huffed in irritation, making a sound in the back of his throat that was not unlike a beak clicking, “You’ve not killed yourself thus far, so why are you suddenly convinced that you will soon?”

Greg chuckled, “I thought you’d figured that out. Isn’t that why you showed up tonight?”

Greg pulled his gun out and studied it a moment, “I was keeping the barrel warm in my mouth when you knocked on my door.”

Mycroft’s face paled, “You… you can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am,” Greg replied, laughing bitterly, “Did you think I’d be okay with this, Myc? Being the one to out your bedmates in the morning? Guarding your ungrateful backside? Raising your child while you, what? Continued the ridiculous playboy lifestyle your mother was denied?”

“I…”

“What would she think now, Myc?” Gregory asked, “You not loving me I understand, that’s not your fault, but this? Keeping me around like a security blanket? Because you know I’ll never leave?”

“It’s not that I don’t…”

“And the long line of lovers? Having me deal with them when you can’t? What if your sire had done that to her?”

Mycroft’s eyes were as wide as saucers and Gregory couldn’t say he was sorry. However, he hadn’t wanted things to end this way between them. He sighed and put his gun away. 

“Look, if you still want me in your bed I’m there. With protection. Otherwise I think it’s best you turn in. Sherlock’s disposition is tomorrow and you’ll be late if you don’t get some sleep. Set an alarm. I won’t be waking you up.”

“What? No!” Mycroft snatched at his arm, “No you can’t! Please! Gregory, please don’t leave me!”

Lestrade smiled softly, “I’ll wear the condom no matter how prettily you plead, you kn-“

“I don’t mean that, I mean don’t kill yourself!”

Lestrade felt his face turn hard, “It’s my body. My life. My _pointless_ life. You don’t get to deny me my death, Mycroft.”

“I’ll do anything!” Mycroft pleaded, looking truly terrified, “I’ll stop bringing people home. I’ll stop sleeping with anyone besides you.”

Lestrade snorted, “You’re smarter than I am by more than I care to think about. As if you couldn’t pull off an affair or three without me knowing. No thanks. I’ve been there already, I’d rather not go through that again.”

“You _can’t_ be serious? Gregory, I swear I _have_ loved you. I always have. Long before the bombing. I just needed to sew some wild oats! I’ll stop. I don’t need anyone but you. I just… I thought you’d always wait for me. I was a fool and I see that now. Give me a chance!”

“Please, you’ve got to realize how hollow that sounds after all this time?” Lestrade replied sadly, “Don’t do this to me, Myc. Just let me die with some dignity.”

“There’s no dignity in death!” Mycroft shouted hysterically, “Especially not in blowing your brains all over the walls!”

“Is that what you’re worried about? I’ll do it in the shower. It will clean right up,” Lestrade comforted, patting his hand, “So if that’s all then…”

“No that’s not bloody all!” Mycroft screeched, making Lestrade gape at him for both the swear and the loss of control, “Wait… wait, that’s it! Dignity!”

Mycroft bolted for his clothes and pulled out his mobile, kneeling on the bed as he fumbled with it. He slid the antenna out- _what mobile still has an antenna these days? –_ and then kept pulling until it came free. Then he tipped it upside down and a small red capsule fell into his hand.

“This is a deadly poison, guaranteed to kill you within seconds of biting down past the plastic coating. It is instant death, no antidote, no resuscitation, no pain, no side-effects other than death.”

“The hell are you doing with that?!” Lestrade asked in horror, stepping forward.

Mycroft quickly slipped it back in and shoved the antenna over it, “I’ll give it to you on one condition.”

“What? Why would I want it? I’ve got my gun.”

“You want to die with dignity? This will leave you a perfectly lovely corpse for me to bury and mourn. It will be quick and painless. It won’t require you to dreg up the nerve to pull the trigger. Just one condition Gregory, please.”

“What condition?” Lestrade asked, not really caring if he got the pill.

“I will offer this to you every morning and if you accept it you will die wrapped in my arms, which is where- I think- you would prefer to be.”

“Gods, yes,” Lestrade replied, staring at him hungrily, “Gods help me, I still want that.”

“Then you’ll have it, but _only_ if I can’t convince you to give me another day.”

“What?”

“Every morning I will make you a new deal, a new promise for that day. If you want what I’m offering you more than you want death, you give me back the capsule. If you want death more than my offering than I will give it to you and hold you until you grow cold.”

“What if I’m still set on dying tonight?” Lestrade asked, hesitating in his longing to reach for Mycroft.

“For now I can only offer you a night of passion, and then this pill in the morning. If what I offer you in the morning is better than death, give it back to me.”

“That’s… yeah, okay. Deal.”

They shook on it and Mycroft tugged Lestrade onto the bed, their mouths meeting hungrily.

XXX

“Hello John,” Sherlock’s voice greeted him. He was sitting cross-legged on their bed in the clip, wrapped up in his robe, “If you’re watching this it means I’m indisposed of in some way. Possibly a case, but more likely something a bit more… permanent…”

John licked his lips anxiously. Permanent how?

“If for some reason I’m not available to you, you may be tempted to slake your lust with someone else,” Sherlock leaned forward, eyes narrowing and nostrils flairing, “ _Don’t._ ”

John swallowed hard. Sherlock getting all commanding with him was becoming a bit of a kink. He _really_ needed to get the man a convincing army outfit and put some bars on his shoulders…

“Now then,” Sherlock stated, “On the thumb drive this clip is on are a series of others, each more intense than the last. I’ve even managed to record us a few times just for your pleasure. I want you to wake up each morning and watch one, masturbating to it to curb your ardour. That way when you go out in the world without me you won’t be tempted to be unfaithful. I expect you to be waiting for me when I get back, John. Ready to breed me. _And only me_.”

John shivered in desire as the clip stopped. He quickly clicked the next one in the sequence and stared in surprise as Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his shirt, hips shifting in a sultry dance. He stripped off his clothes article by article while moving to music only he could hear. John paused the clip and went to fetch a strong drink and some lube. He was going to be watching this for a _while_. 

XXX

“These are for Sherlock Holmes,” The thin man sighed, “I’m just bringing my friend his glasses. He was arrested without them, but I’m afraid he’s _terribly_ far sighted. It might hurt his case since he won’t be able to read anything. Wouldn’t want it thrown out of court on a technicality, would you?”

“He’s not allowed visitors besides his mate,” Geoffrey replied. He was sniffing the air curiously, his large mane ruffled in confusion. The thin man didn’t _smell_ like anything, as if he didn’t have an animal form at all!

“That’s fine, I’ll just drop them off. You _will_ see to it that he gets them, won’t you?” The strange man stared into the Geoffrey’s eyes and he stared back, completely frozen for a moment, “You’ll take them _straight_ to him.”

“I’ll take them straight to him,” The man repeated, taking the glasses from Moriarty’s outstretched hand and walking them past the gate he was guarding.

“Hey, Goeff,” McCaffrey called, “What are you doing this side? You relieving someone?”

“I have to take Sherlock Holmes his glasses. If he can’t read anything it will hurt his case. It will get thrown out.”

“Oh, shit,” McCaffrey replied, “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty important. Is he with his solicitor now?”

“I don’t know. The skinny guy didn’t say.”

“Oh, umm… okay. Bye.”

Geoffrey walked past the next gate and checked Holmes’ cell. Empty. He walked through another gate and into the commissary area. Empty. Finally he reached the grounds and walked across them, completely unresponsive to the shouts from angry inmates at the guard invading their free-time area. He found Sherlock Holmes sitting on a bench with his hands in his pockets, scowling at him.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I brought you your glasses. You need them for your case. Or it will get thrown out.”

“Fantastic!” Holmes crowed, jumping up and snatching them from him, “Well, go on. Off with you.”

Geoffrey turned and left the way he’d come, only stumbling to one side when a thrown rock connected with his head. The alarmed prisoners parted in front of him, letting him pass them without continued assault. He continued on through the gates with a blank look on his face and blood streaming down the back of his head. When he was pulled aside and sent to infirmary ten minutes later he told them he remembered nothing past talking to a strange off-smelling man at his post.  

XXX

Sherlock hurried into his cell and climbed onto his bunk curling up at the head of it to get the most privacy possible. He unfolded a thin wire from the front of the glasses, extending out the bridge of the nose, and adjusted the small tip to face him. Then he slipped the glasses on and a soft, fond smile crossed his face. John and Mycroft were two of the three people still alive who had ever seen that expression on his face. The third would soon be dead.

“Hello, Mary,” Sherlock replied softly, “You were brilliant. I almost believed you myself! Such a fantastic actress!”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and listened to Mary for a moment.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “Soon, but not soon enough. Now you must be brave, my dear. Terrible things are going to happen. I promise you we _will_ be together. When the worst appears before you remember our code. _Magic trick…_ I love you too, my dear. Remember what I told you. _Go to John_. John will know what to do next. Follow his lead.”

Sherlock ended the call and folded up the thin wires, sighing happily. His plans were all coming together. Soon everything would be finished and he could waltz into the sunset with John and Mary… and perhaps someone more. Sherlock slipped down from the bunk and dropped the morning after pill into the toilet. Decision made, he crawled back into his bunk to rest.

XXX

Mycroft was wild for him, his hands tangled in Lestrade’s silvery hair, and tugging at his ears. He wrapped his legs around the man’s hips and tried to pull him close, but Lestrade resisted. He wasn’t going in for a fast, hard fuck. He wanted to spend his last night alive making _love_ to his mate. So he pressed Mycroft down into the bedding and stilled his wandering hands by pinning them above his head.

“What are you… I’ve no interest in bondage. I’ve already figured that out, remember?” Mycroft snapped, his tone biting.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Lestrade teased, “I’m just keeping you still. You’re too eager by far.”

“That’s supposed to be a _good_ thing.”

“There’s more than one way to have sex, Myc. And I’m not up for hot and heavy. How about slow and tender?”

“That sounds… dull.”

“You might find out otherwise with me. Don’t like it you can always just give me the pill in the morning with no ultimatum, right?”

“That isn’t _funny_ ,” Mycroft snarled.

“You’re so sexy when you’re angry. I think I’d like you to tie _me_ up some day… if we get another chance at this. For now, let’s focus on our lips.”

“Lips? I have a _vent_ remember? I’m an owl breed.”

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Lestrade chuckled. 

He pressed his lips against the sulking man, moving his slowly even when Mycroft tried to speed it up. The result was that Greg got a lot of spit on him, but when Mycroft realized it was no use fighting it he relaxed into the tender caresses. 

_ A/N I meant for this chapter to be longer but with me having so little time to post I just decided to toss it out there. More to come when I’m at the library next. _ __


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock smiled softly as the gates opened for him. He was officially out on bail; paid in full by Moriarty rather than Mycroft so it could be established that Mycroft wasn’t supporting his insane brother anymore. John was standing there holding a bouquet of flowers and trying not to twitch anxiously. When Sherlock emerged he held open a cab door for him and slipped in after, grasping his hair to pull him in for a heated kiss the second they were away from the cameras.

“Flowers, John?” Sherlock scolded lightly.

“They’re edible,” John replied.

“I noticed,” Sherlock chuckled, “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” John growled, crowding him against the door.

“Don’t you have questions?” Sherlock asked, a look of amusement on his face as he caressed John’s quivering ears.

“Are you going to answer any of them?”

“Perhaps.”

“Arsehole.”

“If you like,” Sherlock purred, pulling John closer.

They kissed slowly for a while, the heat building between them until the cabby cleared his throat loudly. Sherlock pulled away while John groaned in frustration.

“My trial is in two months,” Sherlock informed him, “Mycroft pulled his lawyer.”

“He told me.”

“He’ll be cutting all ties with you as well.”

“Is this the plan, then? Get CAM to ease off of you by making sure Mycroft doesn’t use you as leverage against him? Then what? Won’t he just find new leverage?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated, “But like the leverage he once had, we will control it.”

“So who’s the next target?” John asked worriedly.

Sherlock smiled sadly, “My secret child, of course.”

“What?” John asked in surprise, “Then it _was_ planned? This whole time I’ve thought…!”

“Of course it wasn’t planned,” Sherlock scoffed, “I was trying to get Arthur and his father _away_ from Magnussen!”

“Arthur and… and… his… his father?” John asked.

“I know he abandoned me, John,” Sherlock sighed, “But he _is_ the father of my son.”

“Yeah, and he _was_ your mate,” John replied, tone crisp.

“Past tense, yes,” Sherlock replied, “I knew Magnussen had something on him, so I went to ask him what it was. I pleaded with him to come forward, knowing that if blackmail were proven all our problems would be gone but…”

“You saw Arthur,” John said softly.

“Let’s not dwell on that,” Sherlock replied sadly, “Let’s just… take this as the advantage it is. Mycroft has broken away from me, Magnussen’s leverage is derailed, with Arthur and his father in the spotlight they are able to slip away from their persecutor; all’s well that ends well.”

“Except for your…”

“Trial, yes. That.”

“So what’s the plan for the trial?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, “Win?”

John snorted, shaking his head in amusement.

XXX

Gregory ran his tongue around Mycroft’s vent in circles, listening to his gasps as he writhed in pleasure. It was difficult to hold all that down aside so he saturated it happily and plastered it to Myc’s body. That gave him an idea.

“I want to preen your feathers,” Greg purred, “Can I?”

“I… Now?” Mycroft asked, wriggling a bit.

“Yeah,” Greg climbed up his body, “I wanna groom you.”

“I’m… _extremely_ aroused.”

“I’m extremely clingy,” Greg shrugged, “I might not get another chance. How do you preen your feathers?”

“Well,” Mycroft sighed, “You’re in the right place for it. Those feathers turn into a fine powder that I use to preen my wings. Since I don’t have a beak I usually use a toothbrush.”

Greg was lapping at them still.

“It… it doesn’t work well when mixed with saliva,” Mycroft reminded.

“Yeah, feels odd on my tongue, too,” Gregory chuckled, “So, toothbrush?”

“Top drawer, but… honestly half the point is to realign them. Can’t we wait till after?”

“Fair enough,” Lestrade chuckled, “I suppose making you wait is a bit cruel.”

“ _Terribly_ ,” Mycroft scolded teasingly.

Greg chuckled and crawled up his body between his thighs, making sure not to kneel on his tail feathers. Mycroft was hyperventilating, eyes wide and pupils blown with lust. Lestrade’s cock twitched in excitement as he smiled at his needy lover.

“Slow down.”

“I don’t want to slow down!” Mycroft choked out, “You said you’d go down on me to calm me down, but it’s not working!”

Lestrade chuckled a bit and reached down to stroke his fingers along the orifice he’d been lathing with his tongue.

“You’ll faint if you keep breathing like that,” Lestrade soothed, sliding a finger into his grasping hole.

Mycroft’s entrance was like a combination cunt and arsehole, it sucked at him and gripped him all the way from the crown to the base of his cock. He had multiple muscles going deep into his body and there was no bottom to it, he could thrust in endlessly and just wallow in the blissful feel of Mycroft Holmes.

 

**VVV Writing this was delaying me getting out the next chapter so I’ll be coming back to finish the sex scene at a later date. My facebook group will be alerted of the update to the chapter. VVV**

“Good morning,” Lestrade sighed, stretching out with a groan, “Everything hurts.”

“I’ll fetch you a paracetamol once we’ve discussed our arrangement,” Mycroft soothed.

“That’s okay. It’s the good kind of hurt,” Greg smiled fondly, “So what’s my bribe today?”

“Spend the day with me.”

“I spend _every_ day with you,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Yes, but I won’t have you leaving my side this time, and I won’t be ignoring you or treating you like furniture.”

“Just the fact you’re aware you were doing that worries me,” Lestrade frowned.

“I admit it was calculated,” Mycroft replied, “Gregory, I never thought you would get to this point. I suppose I’ve placed you on a pedestal, assumed you would always be mine to have… should I want to take you up.”

“I am yours,” Lestrade shrugged, “It’s you who aren’t mine.”

“I want to remedy that, but what I meant is that I never imagined you’d get to the point where you were more inclined to kill yourself than follow me about.”

“I’m not a doll, Mycroft,” Lestrade replied reproachfully, “But I am breakable, just like anyone is.”

“Will you agree?” Mycroft asked, “Give me a chance to include you in my life today instead of keeping you as an accessory?”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg nodded, “That sounds worth a day. Where do we start?”

“First I preen my feathers. In the cave-in I had to use a shower, but my breed actually fares better with preening than washing. While I do take a water bath every now and again, I prefer a dust bath or to make my own dust. A sort of dander, but not the repulsive oily kind. I use it to coat my feathers and keep them pristine. Does… does that disgust you?”

“Hell no,” Lestrade shrugged, “You always smell good, so I assume you know what you’re doing. Not everyone bathes in water, and those that do don’t always do it daily.”

“In that case… would you preen me?” Mycroft asked hesitantly, reaching into his bedside drawer and pulling out a special brush reserved for that task, “It’s an intimate act for my kind, a way of bonding with our mates and young. I’ve never been preened by another- my mother was loath to form ties with us- but I would be honoured if you would do so.”

Mycroft rolled onto his back and spread his legs to show him the gland that produced the powder for preening. Greg snatched up the brush, his eyes shining greedily, and stroked it along his softer feathers while Mycroft lay with his legs spread for him. Once he had the toothbrush well coated with the soft powder that Mycroft’s body produced the owl rolled over and stretched out long, beautiful wings and tail feathers. Gregory paused to stare at the glory that was his plumage, breathing in his beautiful scent. Mycroft’s tawny feathers were something to behold when spread out, stretching further than each side of the king-sized bed. His tail feather’s spread out in a delicate fan and this was where Lestrade started as he stroked from base to tip.

“Curve them away from my body as you go. Part of the point of preening is to realign them.”

“Myc,” Lestrade whispered, “You’re so _beautiful_.”

Mycroft shivered rather than answer and Lestrade stroked along his feathers once again. They spent a good half an hour at it, far longer than Mycroft was want to preen his own feathers. He preferred to get the task done and over with, but not with Gregory admiring him from top to bottom.

XXX

It had taken hours to get John to fall asleep. He’d needed sex, and blood, and milk, and more sex. Not that Sherlock was complaining, but he was a bit lightheaded and dehydrated. He donned a robe, more for his own comfort than propriety. Mary could only see his face in the projection, and clicked the signal on once their agreed upon time approached.

“Hello, my darling,” Sherlock smiled adjusting the glasses on his nose.

“Hi,” A soft voice whispered, “I’m all ready to go. No one has found me and I made contact with Molly.”

“Perfect. Our plan starts tonight. Be strong, my dearest.”

“I will.”

“John will be so sad, please take good care of him.”

“I will.”

“I love you so, so much,” Sherlock stated, forcing down the shakiness in his voice.

“I love you too Mommy.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and hesitated at the edge of the building. He raised the phone to his ear and waited until John answered.

“Hey, Sherlock, where are you? I was just in the morgue and Molly said you hadn’t been there.”

“Take three steps back and look up.”

“What?”

“On the roof, look up.”

John turned and looked up and then froze, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t move. Stay exactly where you are.”

“Sherlock?!” John asked, panic creeping into his voice.

“I can’t win, John. I can’t beat Magnussen.”

“What?!” John stammered, “No. No, stop this! You haven’t lost, it’s just a draw! He can’t manipulate Mycroft anymore and…”

“And I have no life left. Seeing you only once a day in a prison cabin? Pumping milk to store for you being the _only_ connection we have outside of that hour? I’ll go mad with boredom and you’ll eventually find someone else!”

“No,” John pleaded, “I have your tapes. They’re hot as hell, by the way. I love them and…”

“And you’ll grow bored of them.”

“I won’t. I can’t. I’m addicted to you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not as much as I am to you. John, food is already loosing flavour for me. I won’t live out the rest of my life as my mother did. Arthur keeps me alive when I’d rather die. I won’t let myself become the drawn-out husk that my mother was.”

“Sherlock,” John pleaded, “Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll… I’ll get a chastity device and give you the key!”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Now _that_ was tempting, and had he really been suicidal it might have worked. He forced his arousal down.

“Tempting John, but I’ve made up my mind. This is goodbye. I’ve left several full bags of milk and some blood with Molly, quite a bit so you’ll be set until a shipment comes in for you tomorrow or the day after at the latest.”

“No,” John pleaded, “No, don’t. Please, Sherlock! I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“YES! Name it!”

“Protect Arthur,” Sherlock said softly, then tossed his phone aside, ignoring the shout John sent up for him. He spread his arms like the wings of the mother he still resented even in death and…

XXX

John was numb. Numb and dead inside. People were useless, in fact they were worse than useless they were _obnoxious_. They kept turning to him all through the funeral and saying _At least you don’t have SGD. You can still find someone else._

What did it matter that food still tasted the same? He had no one to enjoy it with, and any partner he had after this- if indeed he ever had one again- wouldn’t hold his heart as Sherlock had. John’s body gave an errant twitch, his arousal spiking again as it did every few hours- curse his rabbit biology. He growled in frustration and headed to the room he’d shared with Sherlock. His scent was gone from the long time spent in prison, but John still cherished everything in the room. He stretched out on the bed and queued up his laptop, running through the selection of clips.

His favourite was a scene where Sherlock rode a sex doll dressed in John’s clothing with fake wings spread out. He’d teased his teats till they’d spilled milk across it and John still shivered in desire at the sight, his mind putting the scent into his nose without it being present.

Today he didn’t want to watch that one. Today he’d looked in the fridge and realized he’d finished the last of the milk with his whiskey last night. Today he’d have to start on the blood being sent to him from a predator town fifty miles away. He’d popped the top on the bottle, warmed it in the microwave, taken one sip, and broken down in tears all over again. No. Today he wanted something different.

John toggled through the clips, finally settling on one that would distract him with it’s simplicity alone. Sherlock spread out on the bed with a cockring keeping him hard while he struggled against ropes. John was jealous of Moriarty for being able to see this scene in person but he knew they had some twisted camaraderie going on and left it at that. Sherlock would never cheat on him.

John hit play and snatched up the lube, intending on using a toy on himself to simulate Sherlock’s large phallus. There he lay in the clip, his cock hard with the soft hum of a vibrator attached to the ring keeping him interested. He started out stalwart, giving John plenty of time to prep himself and kneel on the bed with a large toy at the ready. He would keep tossing off and wait for the best part to plunge the toy into himself.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, beginning to struggle in his bonds, “Please.”

“Oh gods, Sherlock,” John breathed, “So gorgeous.”

Sherlock wriggled on the bed, his pattern complemented the deep red sheets he’d spread out just for this film. He looked as if he were lying in a pool of blood, but the idea wasn’t as off-putting as John had feared it was. He was picturing it as stores of Sherlock’s own blood, there for John to savour and lap up as they made passionate love.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, “John, I’m so _hard_!”

“Mmm, me too, you filthy _cow_ ,” John growled, tossing himself off firmly, “I’m going to make you _beg_ for it!”

“Please!” Sherlock cried out, beginning to pull more firmly against the ropes tying him to the head of the bed. He thrashed against the sheets, his horn catching a bit and tearing it audibly. Moriarty gasped but John ignored him.

“John!” Sherlock cried out.

“Mmm, Lock,” John moaned, stroking his aching prick faster, “I’m going to keep this from you. Torture you with it.”

“What do I have to do to get you to _fuck me_ already!” Sherlock shouted.

John paused, “I’ll tell you what you can do: you can stop being dead!”

John snatched a nearby cup of whiskey and downed it, then took up the toy and pushed it inside of himself until it _hurt_! Sherlock was thrashing wildly on the bed as Moriarty used a remote to kick up the speed on the vibrator. He was crying out and writhing while John fucked himself with the toy, leaning over to groan as he watched Sherlock’s face flush beneath his thin fur. He looked as if he were in pain and this video did _not_ end with his climax but rather with him sobbing as Moriarty untied him. The other creature never touched Sherlock intimately, instead he let Sherlock remove the cockring. At that point he would stroke himself a few times and then look at the camera with tears in his eyes and whisper, _I can’t. Not today. I need John here. Turn it off._

John came with a strangled cry, falling forward and sobbing into their pillows as his body shook with a combination of sorrow and worn-out muscles. He hugged one pillow tightly between his legs and the other in his arms, peppering it with kisses as he listened to Sherlock’s final words on that clip, reaching up to rewind it over and again.

“I need you too, Sherlock. You were right. The tapes aren’t enough.”

XXX

John showered slowly, washing himself of the grime of the last few days until the water turned cold. Then he headed out into the living room again. The police were banging on his door again. He could see their lights flashing outside from the sitting room. They had shown up a few time over the last few days wanting to know where Arthur was. Apparently he’d run away from home the day Sherlock killed himself, but John wasn’t a suspect since someone had recorded him with their mobile freaking out over Sherlock’s suicide in front of St. Bart’s. He had a rock-solid alibi but the police were convinced it was all staged and kept harassing him anyway. John threw on a robe and stomped down the steps, leaning heavily on his cane as he answered the door.

“What do you bast…” John stopped. A little girl stood between the police with her pink face drenched in tears and snot, “…best police officers I know require?”

Lestrade stepped up beside the two PC’s who were standing in the doorway, “John, this is Mary. We’d like to come in and…”

“Daddy!” Mary sobbed, pulling out of the police constable’s arms and throwing her own around John’s waist.

John’s hand flew to the tangle of dark curls on her light brown head. Unlike Arthur she had no horns, but John wasn’t convinced the two weren’t the same person. He motioned them in and set about anxiously making tea. He pulled some milk- not Sherlock’s, that was gone- out of the fridge for Mary. Finally they all sat down and took that obligatory first sip before John started babbling frantically.

“Greg, what’s going on? This is Sherlock’s child, she has to be, but I’m not her father. I didn’t even _know_ Sherlock twelve years ago! And Sherlock had a _son!_ ”

“Turns out her father was forcing her to dress as a boy, even had horns glued to her head. She was miserable. Depressed. She ran away, intending to go to Sherlock, only to find out he’d… she read it in the paper. She showed up at the police station in tears and told our Child and Welfare unit about her father’s mistreatment. He needed a male heir. Apparently the sonogram made it look like a boy was on the way but Sherlock spat out a girl. He’d already kicked Sherlock to the curb so… The father hid it from everyone, even Sherlock, and she only found out herself when she started getting curious with other young ones. Quite the shock. She’s going to need therapy and well… Her father’s been arrested for child welfare endangerment and Sherlock’s Will states you as her caretaker. A judge looked it over and…”

“What about Magnussen?” John asked.

“Who?”

“Magnussen,” John stated firmly, “He was being investigated by Sherlock. That’s the reason all this horrible stuff went down. Magnussen was blackmailing people left and right, he’s the reason Sherlock went to see Trevor and saw Arthur and… he _must_ have known! He was trying to _protect_ Mary! From her own _father_! He’s killed himself because…”

“That _monster_ was _not_ my father!” Mary screeched, standing up and clenching her fingers in true Sherlockian pique, “He was a selfish bastard who only cared about money! I had nothing! No toys! No love! I had the most boring of food because he was such a _Scrooge_! You’re supposed to be my daddy! Mommy said so! He promised!”

Mary burst into tears and John headed around the coffee table to pull her into a gentle hug, “It’s going to be okay, Mary. I’m not as rich as your… as Trevor was… but I’ll get you whatever I can.”

John glanced at Greg who nodded approvingly, “She’ll be getting income of her own, actually. That should ease the way. Sherlock’s trust fund goes to you as her guardian until she’s twenty per his stipulation. Mycroft is out of contact with you, right?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll want to reach you. Will you talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Lestrade nodded, “He sent me over.”

“I figured,” John snorted, “Considering you aren’t with the police anymore.”

Mary had calmed a bit with John rubbing her back so he led her to her seat again and knelt down beside her, “Listen, this is going to be an adjustment. We’ll get you set up in the room upstairs and enrolled at the school near here. I’ll try and make sure you can see your friends…”

“I haven’t any. They all thought I was a boy. When they found out I’m a girl they kicked me off the sports teams and shut me out.”

“I’m so sorry,” John soothed, brushing a curl aside, “We’ll make you some new friends.”

“She’ll need more clothes,” Lestrade stated, “I’ve got a check here for you from Mycroft to get her started. He’s sending furniture over today.”

“Pompous as… asking me would have been polite,” John grumbled.

“I’m twelve, not two,” Mary stated, eyes narrowed like a miniature insulted Sherlock Holmes, “I know what swear words are.”

“Doesn’t mean you should hear them,” John stated, then added, “Or use them.”

Mary rolled her eyes but didn’t argue and the police left John to continue discussing the situation with Lestrade.

XXX

“You’re sure this was the only way?” Mycroft asked, watching Sherlock pick at his food with a disgusted look on his face, “Your food is already foul to you.”

“I can’t figure out why,” Sherlock grumbled, “It’s not like Love Birds can’t be away from each other. John’s death would trigger this, but not a bit of separation. Seeing him daily at the prison was overkill, to be honest.”

“Yes, but the law allows it so why not utilize it?”

“True,” Sherlock shrugged, “John needed it more than I, to be honest. He’s so… _randy_. You’ll make sure?”

Sherlock’s worry showed through and Mycroft smiled softly and nodded, “Mary will keep him busy. She knows to pitch a fit and refuse any date he brings home. He might still sneak off for a one-off, you know but…”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, shutting his eyes in agony, “I’m dead to him. It’s understandable. Perhaps that thought is what triggered my food aversion? I’ve given him up, in a way.”

“For good cause,” Mycroft reminded, “Magnussen will be facing a full trial, the added scandal of him knowing a child was being abused will incite people against him. Even if the evidence is circumstantial…”

Mycroft’s phone went off and Mycroft pulled it out and answered it, his face morphing into one of horror.

“No,” Sherlock whispered.”

Lestrade strode into the room, worry etched on his face, saw that Mycroft was on his phone and simply turned on the television.

“Keep me posted,” Mycroft stated, and hung up the phone, “He’s circumvented me! On live television!”

“But how?” Sherlock asked, watching as the police and Magnussen’s film crew searched the suave house, “He’s been in police custody all day! He’s not had time to destroy the evidence and trusts no one!”

“There was none,” Mycroft whispered, sitting back in his chair, “Sherlock… the library. There _was_ no library. Not a physical one. We’ve finally met our equal.”

“You mean…” Sherlock shook his head, “No. No! I’ll have to find another way to defeat him! I’ll have to _stay dead!_ Away from John and Mary!”

“We could tell him…” Lestrade suggested.

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock snarled, standing and pointing at him accusingly, “John’s behaviour must _not_ change. He has to be in mourning. Magnussen is too dangerous!”

“He’s got to be suffering,” Lestrade replied.

“He is,” Sherlock replied, “But he’ll be suffering all the more if Magnussen gets his way. He’ll be able to manipulate _everyone._ The freedom John fought and was injured for will be lost!”

Lestrade shook his head slowly, walking to Mycroft’s side and stroking along his feathered head, “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock replied, “Jim and I will head to America. There must be a way to turn his game around _on_ him.”

“And Mary?” Mycroft asked, “You’ve already missed most of her childhood.”

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment and then focused on his hands, “She has John. He saved me. He’ll save her too.”

XXX

“I don’t understand,” Mary sobbed, “We’re supposed to be together. A family.”

“You know I would be there if I could, but Magnussen…”

“I know, I just… I really, really wanted this.”

“You’ll have it, just… not yet. Take care of John and he’ll take care of you. How… how is he?”

“Very nice. He bought me lots of pretty dresses and make-up.”

“Less is more,” Sherlock advised, “Unless you’re going undercover, of course.”

“Of course,” Mary chuckled, “Can I tell him?”

“No,” Sherlock said softly, “He doesn’t have your acting skills.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“That’s my girl,” Sherlock smiled, “I’ll check in with you in one week. Same time, your time.”

“Love you Mommy.”

“Love you too, Mary.”

XXX

“So Daddy,” Mary chirped as she sat down at the dinner table, “I’ve been thinking about your career.”

“Have you, now?” John chuckled.

“Yes,” She nodded firmly, “I was looking up English law and I found a few loopholes that would let me work for you since you’re now my guardian and-“

“Wait, looking it up on what? Sherlock hates law and government; there aren’t any books in the flat on those. You’ve been online. When have you been on the internet? How? I should be monitoring that, there are all sorts of shocking things on the internet.”

“Relax,” She laughed airily, “I used your laptop. Check the history if you like. I left it.”

“It’s password protected!”

“Yeah, but not _really_ ,” Mary replied, “Anyway, I was thinking we should start our own practice! Wouldn’t that be great? I can be your secretary.”

“Okay. Why?” John asked worriedly.

“So we can always be together!” Mary cried out, “We have so much time to make up for!”

“What about school?” John worried.

“I’ll homeschool. Uncle Myc can be my teacher.”

 _Uncle Myc,_ John mouthed, shaking his head in wonder as he placed their plates down with some bangers and mash before fetching a glass of juice each.

“And why can’t I be your teacher?” John asked teasingly, assuming it was because Mycroft was far more intelligent.

“Because you’re my doctor, silly,” Mary scolded, “Don’t forget, we have to meet with the judge to change my name legally tomorrow.”

“Right,” John nodded, “And your therapy is today.”

Mary sighed, “Do I _have_ to?”

“I’m afraid so,” John replied, “That’s their stipulation over me keeping you. I have to take you to weekly therapy and your social worker will be checking with your therapist to make sure you’re doing well.”

“It’s silly,” She frowned, “I _know_ I’m a girl now. Why do I need lessons in being a girl?”

John wondered the same. For all she’d been forced to be a boy for her entire life, she had absolutely no trouble identifying as a girl. She was happy to be one, demanding pretty things to go with her freshly styled curls and new dresses. Things came for her daily from Mycroft, filling the flat with the scent of lavender and the sight of lace.

John felt a bit displaced, but he wasn’t about to begrudge her some indulgence. Instead he made ready to head to therapy with her and did his best not to frown when she insisted on putting make-up on. At least she put on less this time.

They headed out with Mary chatting about all the things they were going to do with a practice, “And you could run it out of 221C!”

“Mrs. Hudson would…”

“Oh, she’s already agreed. She’s so happy to have me about that she’ll give me anything. You’ll have to pay rent, of course, but she said she’ll wait till the practice takes off. It’s not like it ever gets rented anyway.”

“Yes, because it’s foul down there.”

“I can clean it up. Mold is easy to get rid of if you know how. I’ve done it with my chemistry set at…” Mary froze.

John stopped and turned back to look at her. She was staring down at her hands and fiddling them uncomfortably.

“Something wrong?”

“I haven’t got a chemistry set anymore. They were part of my _old_ life. As Arthur.”

“You can have your mother’s,” John stated before he could think about it, “I’ve no use for it and he’d love you to use it.”

“You think so?” She asked, looking up anxiously, “I wish I could ask him. What if he wouldn’t like me touching it? I mean… it’s _his_.”

John closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath. Saying these words felt so _final_ , “Sherlock… your mum… he’s gone now, Mary. It doesn’t really matter if he wouldn’t have let you use it before. Now it’s your chemistry set. You’ve a right to it.”

Mary nodded, but still looked uncertain. John hesitated a moment- never sure where the line between father and man crossed- and then took her hand gently. Mary let him and they finished the walk to the therapist’s office. There Mary sat herself down in the chair and informed the therapist John would be staying.

“Now,” The therapist smiled, “This is a safe place for you. You can be anyone you want here. Any gender. You don’t have to be the one you were assigned either at birth or later after that. In fact, you can be a blank slate. I’d like you to start by telling me why you picked the name ‘Mary’?”

“I didn’t,” Mary replied, “My mother did.”

“Your… mother?” Jeanette gave John a sideways look.

“Sherlock deduced you, didn’t he?” John asked, “When he saw you for a bit, he knew you were a girl once he laid eyes on you.”

“John,” Jeanette said carefully, “We don’t use gender terms here till Mary is comfortable. Please use ‘them’ and ‘their’ rather than female pronouns.”

“I _am_ comfortable,” Mary frowned, “I _want_ to be a girl.”

“You’ve been a boy for twelve years,” Jeanette replied with a smile, “What makes you so certain a boy isn’t a better fit for you?”

“My vagina,” Mary stated clearly.

John snickered. Jeanette gave him a scolding look, “John, as a doctor and Mary’s _father_ don’t you think you should maintain a calm exterior when discussing genitalia?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” John asked, “Besides, I thought we were leaving ‘gender terms’ at the door? Personally I’m not ready to identify as a dad yet.”

“You aren’t?” Jeanette asked, looking worried, “That could be problematic.”

“Would you rather I called you mum?” Mary asked with a slight smirk, “Or doctor?”

“Doctor,” John nodded, “Definitely doctor.”

“I can live with that,” Mary smiled, “So long as you call me by feminine pronouns.”

Jeanette nodded when Mary turned an imperial look her way, “I’ll do the same. Tell me, how comfortable are you two with each other at this point?”

“Perfectly,” Mary stated.

John shifted a bit.

“John?” Jeanette prodded.

“Well… I’ve never been a dad, and I rather thought I’d start with a baby so… A sudden teenage girl-“

“Tween,” Mary and Jeanette corrected at once.

“-Right,” John nodded, “I’m a bit out of my depth here.”

“What about your sister?” Jeanette asked, “You have her listed in your records, but so far she’s not made an appearance in Mary’s life. It would be good for Mary to have a woman to look up to.”

“Aside from height, Harry isn’t the sort of woman I want Mary looking up to. I’ll put on a dress and let her do my nails first,” John stated protectively.

“My existence might bring out her better side,” Mary pointed out before Jeanette could respond, “You never know how being an aunt could appeal to her.”

“Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it,” John groused, “Nothing gets her on the wagon for good. Nothing.”

“Doctor,” Mary stated, using Sherlock’s scolding tone of voice, “We both know that I’m more intelligent than you are-“

Jeanette’s eyes widened but John was nodding in acceptance, “Yes, but I’m better and interpersonal behaviour.”

“Fair,” Mary nodded, “Let’s try it my way and if it doesn’t work I’ll concede the point to you.”

“Alright,” John nodded, “We’ll try it your way, but I want you to understand that addiction runs in your mum’s line, so this could be a seriously dangerous situation for you. I don’t want you trying her liquor the moment my back is turned.”

“I’ve had hard liquor. It’s foul. I prefer white wine and champagne.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “Have you ever been drunk?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous!” Mary scoffed, “Why would I want to indulge to the point of dehydration and toxicity?”

John nodded, “Very well, I’ll trust you for now, but if I see _any_ indication you’re going the way of your mum we’re tossing you into hardcore rehab. Don’t even doubt I won’t.”

“Fair enough,” Mary nodded, “Can I have a dolly? I forgot to buy one when we were out.”

“Sure,” John nodded.

“Well,” Jeanette laughed awkwardly, “That was certainly interesting. Shall we pick this up next week?”

“Yeah, but just to be sure, what do you mean by interesting?” John asked, “Did I handle that wrong? I’m used to troops, not kids so…”

“John,” Jeanette stated, shutting her tablet off, “If this were any other young lady I’d be saying there was a problem, but now that I’ve seen Mary in action I have to say you should trust your instincts. You seem to know how to handle her. Go with it.”

“Really?” John asked, “Because I’m sort of treating her the way I treated Sherlock… oh, but without the sex part!”

John’s voice cracked in alarm and Mary snickered at him, “I’d kick your arse.”

“Butt!” John snapped, head whipping around, “What did I say about swearing? You can start when you’re sixteen!”

“Sorry, doctor. I’d kick your _butt_.”

“Good,” John nodded firmly, “And any other bast- _boy_ who tried, right?”

“Right,” She nodded, “I’m saving myself for marriage because SGD runs in my family.”

“Darn straight you are.”

Jeanette chuckled, “Have a good week, we’ll start again next week. Mary, do keep the gender issues in mind. You can _always_ change your mind but it’s also fine if you don’t.”

“I know it’s fine,” Mary sniffed, then stood, twirled on one small heel, and marched for the door… to wait there to one side.

“Good day,” John stated, shaking Jeanette’s hand.

John walked to the door, opened it for Mary, and smiled fondly as she continued on with a polite nod at his chivalry.

“Besides,” Mary threw back at him as she headed for the elevator, “I’d have to find someone equivalent or better than _you_. That’s going to take time and patience.”

“Probably not enough of either,” John sighed.

 


End file.
